Ramblings of a GreenYogurt

Who's First?

2012-02-02T20:26:00.000-08:00

One of my responsibilities at work is to open the mail. I date-stamp it in the upper-right corner. Sometimes, Turkey gives the mail back to me with instructions.

Turkey makes lots of mistakes. He's late all the time. Today he shat his pants and then sprayed his entire body with at least half a can of Lysol. I could smell him from ten feet away. But you know, Turkey isn't the only person who makes mistakes. Read that first paragraph carefully. Somebody surely got fired for that one, right? Right?!

Where Are You?

2012-02-01T22:01:00.000-08:00

Assistant is only two years younger than I am, and I'm not at all mature, but she makes me look like a downright upstanding citizen with how immature she is. She's like a sixteen year old. Hey here's a little tip for those of you new to office-life: when you're in the office, don't start doing yoga stretches, especially while talking to people you work with.

Personal Assistant is very passive-aggressive, which I consider to be a somewhat immature trait. She has an erratic schedule. There's a communal calendar where she's forever writing in that she'll be in the office, but never follows that. It's gotten to the point where if someone asks me when PA will be in the office, the only answer I can give is, "She'll be here when she shows up." I don't say it to be a wise-ass, or to be difficult, but because it is the only truth I can count on.

I have had to speak with both Turkey and PA to tell them to stop putting me in the middle of their power struggles via email. At least once a week Turkey tells me to contact PA to find out if she'll be in today or what time she'll be in. She is forever sick and on vacation and taking a day off.

She will email instructing me to tell Turkey that since she doesn't have anything to go over with him, she won't be in. He will tell me that he has things to go over with her, that she doesn't know about. Once I relay this, PA will write back saying she is at an appointment and will be busy the rest of the afternoon. I am then forced to tell Turkey this, and stand there watching his right cheek twitch in anger.

It's a very awkward position to be in - to have someone who's your equal using you to avoid your boss and to have your boss instructing you to pressure your equal to do things she's making clear she doesn't want to do. That's why I told both of them they needed to leave me out of it and communicate directly with each other.

Then He Cried

2012-01-19T21:47:00.000-08:00

Office Manger worked for Turkey for ten very long years. She worked for him while she moved her parents into her home as they came to be unable to care for themselves and each other. She worked for him while her daughter and grandson moved in with her. At one point, four generations were living under her roof. She worked for him as, one by one, her parents died. She worked for him as she was diagnosed with, and then learned to manage, diabetes. Office Manager worked for Turkey while more than ten secretaries came in and out of the office.

Back when I temped for Turkey, Office Manager handled all human resource-type things. In April, as I was starting, Turkey closed his office door to tell me he was taking that over from Office Manager. So what exactly was Office Manager supposed to be doing with all her time? How much managing did our office really need? Office Manager had also been promised some number of paralegal (a.k.a. billable) hours each week, and it was in her contract that she'd get paid for them, whether or not Turkey was able to bill out for them. So if he didn't have the paralegal work to give her, he still had to pay her anyway. He almost never had the paralegal work to give her. Why? Because he has a crush on the (straight, and married) architect, so he gave him almost all the paralegal work.

So back in the fall, Office Manager gave five weeks of notice, per her contract. Then, in the first week of December, her last day came, and sadly Office Manager was gone. A few weeks ago, since I open all the mall, I became aware of the fact that Office Manager filed for unemployment, claiming constructive termination. I had to look it up.

When I thought about what it means, how it can be applied, and the truth of things that happened with Turkey and Office Manager, I smiled. She had a shot. When Turkey saw the mail he asked if I'd read it. I told him I never read the mail, just look at it enough to see who it goes to, with the only exception being when Turkey is out of town.

Turkey is a guy who overshares. He tells me every time he's going to the bathroom. He slams family members and co-workers to me (and other co-workers). Turkey also lets me (and others) see what would seem like incredibly personal documents regarding his life. It's almost like passive-aggressively showing off, to let everyone in the office know how much you paid for your second home.

Today something came in the mail basically saying that Office Manager submitted paperwork proving her claim of constructive termination and while Turkey can appeal, they will begin paying her. Turkey asked if I'd read the documents, and I told him no, that I just open and date-stamp everything before distribution. He folded the pages back up and tucked them under his arm. His cheek twitched, and Turkey told me he needed to take a few deep breathes. I asked if he wanted me to come back, but he said no, so I sat and waited.

It was awkward. Turkey sat, looking down, breathing, while I sat in silence. In my head I'm quite fidgety, but lawyers don't want someone fidgeting on the other side of their desk, so I force myself to sit still. We probably sat, breathing, for about 45 seconds before Turkey resumed opening his mail. What? Don't you sit with your boss providing moral support while he goes through his mail each day? What do you mean that's a waste of time?

Turkey asked once more if I'd looked at the mail. Once more, I gave him my standard reply. We continued on with the mail. It was clear Turkey wanted to be finished quickly, and when we were, he told me to close his office door on the way out. I reminded him that he had to leave in 45 minutes for a meeting. Turkey immediately got on his cell phone, and the WASP and I could hear his tone of voice through the wall. It wasn't pretty. The two of each other looked at each other in shock as we heard the noises he was making. I've been a legal secretary for 15 years, and this was a first.

Open the Windows!

2012-01-03T20:52:00.000-08:00

My slumlord is cheap and doesn't pay for garbage pickup on the weekends. He also didn't want to pay for garbage pickup at two ends of the building, so it only goes into one place. That place sadly, is right below my apartment. This means unfortunately, that by Sundays my apartment smells pretty gross and by Monday mornings, the smell is so bad that I worry I smell badly. On Monday mornings after the trash goes out for pickup, the maintenance guys mop the hallway floors. I'm not sure what chemical it is they use on the floors, but it reeks horridly, and the smell of course spreads to the apartments.

There are windows in the hallways, but there have been signs up next to them from the landlord saying they are not the tenant's windows and as such we do not have the right to open them. Furthermore, we will be fined if he catches us (there are cameras all over the building). Recently a notice by the City was posted right outside the front door to the building, telling the landlord he was in violation of a bunch of laws.

One had to do with not allowing us to open windows. Today, as I was walking back to my apartment after dropping off rent and requesting my landlord fix my kitchen light fixture, a guy was frantically opening all the hallway windows while yelling "Open the windows! Open the windows!" He was trying to get me to agree that it's not healthy for us to have no outlet for the chemicals used to clean the floors. Telling me the landlord isn't allowed to refuse to allow us to open the hallway windows.

I was wearing a hoodie, jeans and flipflops. In no way did I look at all official. Although it turns out my landlord has hired attorneys who happen to be sub-tenants at my office, I do not work for them. I don't work for my landlord. There was no reason for this guy to get me on his side. I hold no power.

When the maintenance guy came to fix my kitchen light he asked if I'd heard all the yelling. I nodded and told him it was about the windows. Hector then spilled the gossip about the Yeller. Apparently he had a back injury and got hooked on painkillers. Hector went on to further explain that the guy is also an alcoholic, and the combination of the two is not good. Well! Thanks for all the gossip on the guy who I formerly only knew of as the guy who had a bike and always holds the door for me.

Are we now free to open the hallway windows without fear of getting in trouble? I don't know. The important thing is though, now I know who to go to when building gossip is needed. Hector!

The Repeating of History

2012-01-01T20:07:00.000-08:00

So that Indian single mother lawyer got fired. I knew it was coming, because first Turkey wasn't giving her any work to do. This by the way, is a sign you're about to get fired. Then he handed her a binder full of articles he's written, and told her to memorize them and he'd quiz her on them the next day. Now, if someone did that to me, I'd cry. She did not. Apparently she went to law school and was familiar with memorizing large amounts of ridiculous information and was actually preparing to take the binder home and cram all through the night. But she got fired and it was the day after she signed a lease that locked her into paying rent for a year.

So now Turkey has a new baby lawyer starting Tuesday. She's like a preemie baby, because she hasn't even taken the bar yet. So she'll work for a month or two, then take a month or two off to study for and take the bar, and then come back. My prediction? Based on the fact that we don't even have enough work right now for the employees currently working, once she's left to study, she will get a call telling her not to bother coming back.

This poor girl is going to show up on Tuesday all bright and shiny in a new suit, with her hair blown out and shoes polished, ready to smile big and make a great impression on everyone. Meanwhile she has no idea she's about to begin working for a pathological liar who takes great pleasure in playing psychological warfare and driving people crazy.

It's not my place to say anything to this new girl. There's nothing to say, really. I mean the WASP has been there for over five years. I didn't get fired after two months - I've been there since April. The billing guy just got a huge promotion - he took over 75% of what Office Manager used to do. So some people do succeed at this firm.

The first person to arrive in the mornings is always me. Except for when there's a new eager beaver baby lawyer around - then they like to show up before me to appear enthusiastic, ready to work both early and late at the drop of a hat. I must make sure to not make any negative comments to her about working here. If it goes anything like it did with the single mom lawyer though, at some point she'll come to me with the comments. Not necessarily negative, but more confused. Turkey loves nothing more than having meetings with people, saying he'll discuss things with you during said meetings, acting stressed about all the meetings he has, and then giving conflicting and incomplete instructions during said meetings. One day last week he had three meetings with Billing Guy. In ONE DAY. This'll be interesting.

Changes Keep Coming

2011-12-27T22:12:00.000-08:00

As of last night a cold has joined me, so I need to get to bed soon. But first, just wanted to get out a few things. Here are the gifts I got from work:

A dark red wine-colored throw, which I exchanged for a light blue/gray/silver one instead. It is so much better having this on my bed as a second blanket instead of my shower towel!
$50 from one of our sub-tenants. You might ask, "What do you do for them?" Here's what: I put all their mail aside for their guy to come pick up, I reserve conference rooms whenever they need one, I receive their clients whenever they show up and sometimes help them.
2 really funny drinking glasses from one of my favorite stores from the hot gay sub-tenant with a cute note.
A bonus from the Turkey that's more than one paycheck but less than two. He must have used some sort of formula to decide how much of a bonus to give, but I can't crack the code for the life of me.
A small box of chocolates from the sweatpants-wearing corpulent guy who (apparently) still has a crush on me.

Talk about making out like a bandit! This is the first year in ages where I've gotten a bonus, and it's an awesome feeling.

Our office manager is still sorely missed, but the billing guy has taken over most of what she used to do, and seems to be doing a great job. He's super-easy to work with, very straight-forward, no mindfucks of any sort, which is fabulous and exactly what we need.

Turkey and Personal Assistant are in some sort of awful power struggle. I will have to blog some back-story for you on her, but I think she'll wind up fired soon. Which will suck since all the random shit she does will get passed to me.

Next week a new baby lawyer starts. Which is weird, since there's barely enough work for our WASP. It's also weird because she hasn't taken the CA bar yet, so she'll work for us for a month, then leave to study for the bar for a month or two, then come back. What is that? I don't see this working out well. My prediction is that she'll work for a month and then while she's out studying the Turkey will tell her not to come back. Next week will be interesting. Baby Lawyer is super professional, and I anticipate her going into shock at Turkey's shenanigans.

It's Not Only Jews Who Get Lonely

2011-12-07T22:23:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, a local bookstore was going out of business. This is before Borders died, and they couldn't slash prices low enough. I wandered through the store, picking books up and putting them down, trying to figure out how I could incorporate an 18-foot rolling ladder into my shoebox of an apartment. After a while I stumbled across a slew of stationery and cards, and as I dug through, found a bunch of Hanukah stuff. A boxed set of cards, a group of gift cards, and I haggled the price down and then bought it all up.

I think of sending out holiday cards as something families do, not single people. What would I do, send a card with a photo montage of me all over it? Write a little blurb about how I vacationed above the Castro a few times, and in Spring took a trip out to the Mission?

But I'm sitting on these Hanukah cards. What am I supposed to do with them? Take them out of the drawer, admire them, then put them back until the next time? Except I don't live in New York anymore, Land of All People Jewish. I live in a world full of people who celebrate Christmas now. Is it rude or disrespectful to send a Hanukah card to someone you know for a fact doesn't celebrate it?

So today I was deliberating buying some less ... denominational cards, more winter-themed, for the non-Jews. The WASP and I were chatting about cards. Obviously, she's not a MOT. She told me something surprising - that she has a few Jewish friends (that's not the surprising part), but they never send her Hanukah cards, and she'd love to get some. Her whole face lit up telling me this. ORLY?! Well, it won't be a miracle on 34th Street, but it will be a miracle near 3rd and 4th Streets and that counts, right?

She's got a couple of little kids, so I am thinking some Hanukah gelt taped to her Hanukah card might be the way to go. It truly never occurred to me that the Christmases might want to receive Hanukah cards. Is the WASP the only one who feels this way? If you're a Christmas, please let me know what your feelings are on this.

I'm Not Josie Grossy Anymore!

2011-11-15T22:16:00.000-08:00

Last year I was really poor. Food stamp poor. Literally. Having friends mail you tampons poor. Literally. I have now been working for more than half a year. I've built up a small savings. I've taken a couple of people out finally, people who've held me up financially and emotionally.

While I was poor, I did a very good job of it. That thing where you write down every single thing you spend money on to see where your money goes? I didn't have to, because I knew, down to the penny. I spent nothing unless it was an absolute need. Even then, I went without several needs.

Now that I can fulfill all my needs and even some of my wants, turns out I still think like I'm poor. Can't seem to stop. While I was poor, I remember wondering how it was changing me, and if once I got a job I'd snap out of it, or if it was a permanent thing. Maybe this is like losing weight after having a baby? Where it takes as long as you were out of work, to get comfortable spending the money you now earn at work?

So I have this ugly, heavy black bag. It's so ugly that it's barely even appropriate to be bringing into a law firm every day. But I use it because it's what I have. For the last I don't even know how long, I've been looking for something nicer. Not hundreds of dollars nice, just like, nice-yet-inexpensive-since-it's-now-at-Marshalls nice. I love nothing more than finding a good bargain. Yet I couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't bring myself to spend $80 (or even $40) on a bag. Even when my mother tried to buy me one last month, I couldn't commit.

Too much time was spent convincing myself I didn't need things when I couldn't afford them, that I didn't need to buy anything that struck my fancy because "the world won't stop creating awesome stuff" that I couldn't move away from that thinking. $50 is NOT AT ALL a lot of money to spend on a bag, especially a black one that would get used every day. I'm not one of those people who has 30 bags. I have fewer than half a dozen.

A couple of weeks ago I was talking with Golden Boy, and this came up. He said something to the effect of this not being a life-long commitment. That it's just a bag, and if I wind up hating it, I can get another one at some point. He didn't actually say anything I didn't know. Sometimes you just need to hear things out loud. Today I found a bag. The leather feels soft, not plastic-y. It was 60% off, at a discount shoe store. There are pockets, it's black, and I spent less than $35. Pretty sure I won't wind up hating this.

2011-11-13T05:04:00.000-08:00

Turkey is ... well, an odd duck. I mean, no. He's a narcissistic asshole who shows hints of being a sociopath (an honest to goodness, fitting the definition one). It's not like you can't classify that. It's just so unusual, and so different to spend so much time with someone who's terrible traits affect so much of our interactions, that it strikes me as odd. But for a sociopath, he's totally normal. It's just not normal to run across many sociopaths. When you're not a shrink, or in prison, I mean. Anyway, he likes to call from outside the office and when I answer the phone, say, "Guess who!" I am tempted to answer with, "My worst nightmare?" or at least just respond, "John?" when we all know his name is Turkey.

Anyway, he likes to always ask how I am, or how my weekend was. I just say fine or good, because I don't want him knowing any details of my life. It doesn't matter though, since he doesn't actually care about me, or my life. He only asks because the proper response is to ask me. He always gives a pathetically dramatic sigh before telling me how hard things are, how tired he is, how he worked so much. Last week he tried to get sympathy from me by claiming he works 12-14 hours a day sometimes. If you know anything about lawyers you know a 12 hour day is completely average. If you know anything about owning your own business, you know working 12-14 hours in a day is totally reasonable.

On Friday, Turkey was walking across the office, heading out for the weekend when he stopped in front of my desk and said, "This has been the worst week." I kept my eyes on my computer screen and continued typing. Turkey pressed on for attention. "Seriously, this has been the absolute worst week of my entire life!"

ORLY?!?!?! Even worse than the week a couple of months ago when you were the last family member to talk to your mother before she KILLED HERSELF? Nobody died this week. Surely that'd make this a better week than the week your mother committed suicide. Oh wait, that'd only be true if you were psychologically healthy. But you're not.

Turkey is barely capable of having a conversation without offending someone, fishing for compliments (if not flat-out complimenting himself), or fishing for sympathy. Office Manager, WASP and I refuse to give the compliments or sympathy and it really throws Turkey. He does this shocked blink thing that you'd expect to see when someone got verbally slapped across the face.

After a decade of working with Turkey, Office Manager has given her notice. WASP and I are devastated (though happy for OM). Turkey initially was going to do a lunch for OM's ten-year anniversary of working at the firm, but he didn't. He does lunches for employee birthdays, but didn't do one for her. After both WASP and I went to him asking where we were taking Office Manager for her goodbye lunch, he sent her an e-mail (which of course she promptly shared with us) asking her to pick a place. Except he worded it in a way that was offensive, by telling her to pick a restaurant she's always wanted to go to but hasn't been able to afford.

My favorite is when Turkey says offensive things in front of clients. Like the time he had four clients in the conference room, and when I went to give him copies of a document he'd asked for, without looking at me, he held a water pitcher out to me over his shoulder telling me, "This needs re-filling." Turkey didn't even notice his clients' jaws dropping.

Most Mondays we have a staff meeting in the conference room. I'm sure you understand why I sometimes go in there early and lower the chair at the head of the table, and then raise the heights of all the other chairs.

Spinach Tortellini - Good as Eating Spinach

2011-11-09T21:17:00.000-08:00

If you'd guessed what I'd turn out like as an adult based on how I was as a kid, you'd have never in a million years come up with Type A. Every single thing has a place, and every single thing has a well-thought out reason for that place. As a kid my room was a total and complete wreck. My idea of cleaning my room was to squish the clothes on the floor into a smaller pile and then throw an unfolded shirt over the whole thing. Wow, kids are so stupid. (What? Just me? Oh, okay.)

I was forever being sent to go clean up my room. At one point in fifth grade, my mother decided I was allergic to jelly and forced me to take plain peanut butter sandwiches on rye bread to school for lunch. I may or may not have thrown a few of those into the depths of my closet. I may or may not worn gloves and run screaming through the house to the garbage pails in the garage to throw out those sandwiches when my parents found and demanded I dispose of them.

My parents tried everything to get me to clean my room. Every time they sent me though, I just sat around reading my books or writing. They tried telling me firmly. They tried yelling. Threatening. Fining. Oh yes, my mother would charge me $2 or whatever every time she walked by my room and saw it messy. I argued this (and to this day, maintain that I had an excellent argument) but my mother would just randomly fine me. I claimed this was completely unfair as my bedroom was at the end of a hallway. It was physically impossible to stand on either side of my doorway, let alone walk PAST the door to ascertain whether my room was clean or dirty. Solid logic, right?

One day, when I was ... some older age but not yet moved out, I was cooking pasta while my mother was reading in the kitchen. She asked me to not pour boiling water over the wooden spoon used to stir, when I was pouring the pasta into the strainer. She claimed it wasn't good for the spoon. I nodded, and said I'd try to remember. I did try, and forgot sometimes, but remembered more than I forgot.

Tonight I was cooking pasta, and watched the boiling water flow into the strainer as I held the pot in my left hand, spoon in my right. Can't help but wonder if my room would have gotten cleaned if my mother had just come up with an equally logically reason for why I should do it.

Probably not...

Thanks

2011-10-23T08:09:00.000-07:00

Preface #1: I've been a little emotional lately.
Preface #2: In case you're new or slow or something, I'm the Family Fuckup. I know - in other families the fact that I've got no tattoos, all my teeth, a piddly associates degree, and never served hard time would make me the family golden child, but not in my family. There are people in my family who've won Emmys and written books, directed plays, birthed beautiful children, traveled with famous people, and done it all with a smile.

I've never even directed a sports play, and the one time I traveled with someone famous I didn't realize it until the plane had landed in LA, and once told the famous person had been on our plane, I'd never heard of him. Some things are wasted on me. Like good sushi.

My parents took mental breaks sometimes in their raising of me, but one of the impressive things about them is they never stopped trying. Sure they lost their shit on occasion, took some bad advice from professionals, but they were always game to take a deep breath and dive back in. One of the things not so impressive, is that they never allowed my history to stay in my past. If I lied this week, I was branded a liar for life, because I'd lied last week and the week before too. What was the point in telling the truth all the time when at least 75% of the time I could get away with lying, especially since they never believed me anyway? (I just forgot the point of sharing this.) (Oh yeah.)

Nothing ever felt truly forgiven because past offenses were brought up time and time again. Even in my 30's my mother has brought up the fact that I pushed a lamp off the piano when I was four years old. Since I'm an adult now, I can say with full authority that if she's still bitter enough (or anything enough, really) to bring it up, then she's got more problems than Four Year Old Me.

It wasn't until my late 20's that I understood how true forgiveness works. It slayed me when it happened, and it still slays me each time I think about it. I basically never talk to the person who forgave me, teaching me about forgiveness through her actions, but think of and appreciate this person all the time. I try to practice her style of forgiveness when other people hurt me. Of course, I'm a bitter bitch who holds grudges so I'm not as good at it as she is, but the point is that I try and that's better than not trying, right?

Anyway, there are so many people (and by so many, I mean like four - I keep my world small) who are truly open to letting me be however I may be (quirky comes to mind when I'm in a kind headspace, batshit crazy comes to mind when I'm not) without making me feel ashamed. And, see Preface #1, but I appreciate this more than I can say. Even more than a Hallmark AND Blue Mountain card combined could say.

I view my strain of crazy as a well. You know, like in a forest, with a bucket and shit? And I feel like I sit on the stone wall of the well. Or I walk around near it in the clearing that's in the forest. Yesterday was a particularly bad day and I dipped into the well.

My most important rule for myself when feeling that way is to not make any big decisions. Any email with the subject line "Hey, you know what I've always wanted to tell you?" should be discarded. Calls to people not spoken to in a long time should be avoided. Wait for the storm to pass. It always does. I am stronger than my crazy, and will use incredible upper-arm strength to pull out of that well.

Once out, you look around at the world. It's the same, yet slightly different. Well, the world isn't really different, but how you view it is. For me, I'm just appreciating those four a little extra right now.

Because I'm In Charge, That's Why!

2011-09-12T20:56:00.000-07:00

Nobody showed up to work today except me. The WASP works part-time, and today was one of her off-days. The office manager was going to come in late, but between BART protests and her errands running long, she called to say she wasn't coming. The billing guy just shows up when he shows up - he has no schedule. Turkey is out of town. So it was just me, and the sub-tenants floating in and out.

At one point, one of the sub-tenants had shown up to meet with clients, and a random guy just showed up in our office. It is my job to greet all who enter the sunken living room, so I asked if I could help him. The guy said he was there to see Sub-Tenant, regarding a legal problem. I ascertained that the legal problem definitely required Sub-Tenant, and told him Sub-Tenant was with clients. I waived my hand towards the sliding glass doors where they were all sitting and talking. He asked if there was someone else. I explained there wasn't - that their main office is across the bridge, and they just rent space and come over only when they're meeting a client. He asked if I could interrupt.

Interrupt? Was this guy fucking kidding? No. No, we do not interrupt. You interrupt when a judge is calling, or when an attorney's pregnant wife calls because her water broke. You do not interrupt for a schlub off the street.

I explained to him at each question, that what he needed to do was call their main office and make an appointment. Or he could leave his name and number with me to pass on to the Sub-Tenant when he finished the meeting. He could wait, but I had no way of knowing if it would be 20 minutes or four hours.

Since everyone was gone today, I really wanted to take advantage of the day by catching up on tons of work, and this guy was really taking up way too much of my time. He kept asking me to make it happen, and I kept telling him the only way it would happen is if he made an appointment. Attorneys are not drive-through restaurants - you do not just show up. (Unless you are paying a bill. You are always welcome to drop off a check.)

In the afternoon, a guy called, telling me he'd just talked to Turkey and wanted to make an appointment. Sure, we can do that. Then he asks me to just send over an engagement letter. Um, no. I tell him I can't do that without an attorney reviewing and signing it. He asks why not? Well, it's a letter, and we don't send out un-signed letters, and I can not sign on behalf of an attorney without said attorney's permission. But can't you just send it to me anyway? No you fucktard, I just told you I can't.

We finally agreed that he'll come in next week, and I'll send him the engagement letter by Wednesday. After we hung up, I called the WASP to confirm with her that I was doing all I could. She said yes, I absolutely made the right call - even she wouldn't send out an engagement letter without Turkey's blessing. Plus, while an engagement letter is a form letter, there are variables. You might be shocked to know that some lawyers change their hourly rate depending on how deep the client's pockets are. The retainer amount changes with each client.

I was exhausted just from arguing all day. Why couldn't these people just listen to me? I know my shit - it's not like I was making it up as I went along here!

So what have we learned today? Call ahead to make appointments when you want to meet with professionals. If someone at the office tells you a professional needs to review a document before sending it to you, take their word for it.

Writing on the Wall

2011-09-05T22:21:00.000-07:00

So a new woman started a little over a month ago. She's Indian, and moved here from the deep South. She didn't sell the house in the South, but rents it out. The deal is she works three days a week at our firm, and two days a week for a nearby city, as a city attorney. I'm not sure how, but she managed to get her son into one of the best public high schools here in the city. Before Turkey hired her, he went around asking if people thought her thick accent would be a problem. This was an improvement over what he first said, which involved the term language barrier. I assure you, there is zero language barrier.

Hey, did I ever tell you that I snagged a job working at a law firm in Oakland? It was a few years ago, through an agency. I quit after two weeks, because despite the fact that it wasn't a new position, they not only weren't ready for me, but couldn't get me set up. Nobody could show me where I was supposed to print to, not even the IT guys. The lawyer I worked for, couldn't figure out a system for giving me work. I'm pretty adaptable - you want to bring me the work, email it to me, that's fine. If you want me to come to your office for assignments, that's fine too. But this lawyer Michelle just couldn't pull it together for some reason (and it's not like I was her first secretary).

So I called the agency and told them I was quitting, because they weren't organized and they weren't setting me up to succeed at my job. People need to be given the tools to succeed in their lives.

At my current job, there is no IT department. Turkey hired an IT company and they charge us by the hour for phone assistance. Every so often they come to the office to fiddle with computer stuff. Their bills are opened by me, and they're funny. "20 minute phone call with Turkey's Personal Assistant explaining why she can not use laptop in bed."

There's something that's not quite kosher with the IT people. They're often very unhelpful. If one of their guys comes to the office, and someone asks them a question about how to use something computer-related, they always say they don't know. Even Turkey gets frustrated by them. But he won't fire them and hire someone else. The Office Manager told me the main IT guy has something he holds over Turkey, and that's why he won't fire them. Weird, right?

Anyway, so we hired the single mom lawyer to work part-time. It took like two or three weeks for her first day. We knew for well over a week when that first day was, and so did our IT people. When she arrived, did they promptly connect her to the network? No. Did they promptly connect her to be able to print? No. So what happens is if Turkey wants her to work on anything, someone needs to email her the document. Then she has to work on it, then email it back to someone for them to save the updated version back in the system. Every time she needs to print something, she emails it to me. Any time she is told to call or email someone, she has to ask me to look up their contact info in Outlook on my computer.

This is not a good system, as I am often busy and can't print what she needs right away. One day while I was on the phone with someone as we both looked at the same web page, she came over, stood right next to me, and tried to take the mouse away from under my hand to click to the screen she needed. I was beyond furious.

Later, when I'd calmed down, I talked to her about it. That I knew she was in a very difficult position by not having access to everything she needs. But just like she needs to be patient sometimes with me, whoever is waiting for her to bring them information also has to be patient with her. Meaning Turkey. I offered to explain to him that I couldn't always do what she needed immediately, but she told me it was okay, she'd do it.

It's so much worse than it sounds, as horrible as it sounds. You're working blind. Someone asks you to write a letter, and you can't even look in the computer to see if any past letters have been written to this person. Turkey loses files constantly, so looking in the physical file is not always an option.

The other difficult thing for this new attorney is that she shares an office. She has one skinny desk to work on that's about four feet wide. That's it! There's a part-time billing guy who uses the other desk in the office, and Personal Assistant stands at a filing cabinet in that office when she's there (which I think is rude, since she can set up camp elsewhere).

There's been a weather problem since she started. She likes her office to be hot. Last week she turned the heat up to 90. Ninety! (I bet she does hot yoga.) The billing guy started showing up to work at odd times, and Office Manager finally found out he can't stand being in that sweat lodge. One day she came in and said the thermostat was set to 55, and expressed outrage. That's no more outrageous than setting it to 90 though. So it's been a bumpy start.

Yes. Like the Magazine

2011-08-16T20:03:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is a client's big court date. Turkey is notorious for doing things last minute, and this case is no exception. So even though we've had this court date looming for a month, today was the day Turkey decided to begin working on the case. Except that last night he took the file home and this morning he brought it back to work. Except he didn't. Because he forgot the file. In someone's car.

Turkey didn't figure this out until the afternoon. Around 3pm he told me to call a guy to ask if he had the file. I called. A half hour later the guy called back. "The good news is I've got the file," he told me. Great! "The bad news is, I'm in Sacramento," he continued. Bummer! "But," he went on, "the other good news is I pulled over when I got your voicemail and I'm now parked in a strip mall that has a UPS store. They'll have it to you by tomorrow morning at 8am." Great!

This is a pretty big deal. If Turkey shows up unprepared for a case because he lost the client's entire file, well, the word malpractice pops up.

The funny part is while I was on the phone with the guy, he asked for the office address. My sunken living room office is in the highest floor of the building. Turkey likes to show off, in every possible way he can, so instead of just saying it's the 32nd floor, he tells everyone it's the penthouse. He makes us use the word "penthouse" in the address all the time. So I tell the guy the street address, and then say the word, "Penthouse."

There's a pause, and he asks, "As in the magazine?"

This Needs Washing Out

2011-08-15T19:45:00.000-07:00

It's not new information to tell you my boss is a prick, but here's an example of his pricky-ness.

It was warm in our office, and Turkey had a scheduled meeting with three people. I confirmed with him that he wanted to hold the meeting in a certain conference room. Then he told me, "Put out a pitcher of water since it's hot out. And I'll want some too."

Normally I just ask people as they arrive if they'd like something to drink, but fine. I out five glasses, found a pitcher, rinsed it, and filled it with cold water. I didn't use the fancy silver pitcher already in the conference room because I vaguely remembered being told it was for decoration.

Turkey came out of the conference room with the pitcher I'd filled. He placed it on my desk, empty. "We're thirsty; you'd better fill up both." I raised my eyebrows, surprised that the water was already gone. Turkey told me, "It's really warm." So I said okay and went to fill up the pitcher he'd given me a second time.

When I walked into the conference room to deliver the second round of water, I couldn't reach the silver pitcher without leaning across the table, and not only would I have flashed the guy sitting across from where I was, but my body would have interrupted the conversation. Turkey however, didn't want to let me go without filling the silver pitcher, so he reached over, grabbed it, and passed it over, without even looking at me. "It needs washing out."

Dismissed, I turned and walked out. I rinsed the silver pitcher, filled it with cold water, then returned it to the table. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from pouring it in Turkey's lap. It's a very small comfort that he did that in front of clients.

Hi. You're Fat.

2011-08-11T19:20:00.000-07:00

So this new lawyer woman started at work a couple of weeks ago. She's this tall, divorced, Indian woman. She has a teenage son. She seems to have previously lived in the Bay Area, though recently moved (back?) from the deep South.

I feel a little bad for her; she's the fourth woman at the firm, and the office manager, WASP and I are all pretty friendly. We talk books and friends and bitch about Turkey of course, and all kinds of things. I hope she doesn't feel too left out.

The other day I arrived at work having been up since 3am. The new lawyer told me it looked like I was tired, and I admitted yes, she was right. She told me the key was to train myself to ignore noises that might wake me, and that's how one can sleep through the night. Today she asked if I got more sleep, and after thinking back, I happily reported that yes, I didn't wake up until 5am this morning.

"Did you know if you get six or less hours of sleep it make you gain weight?" She then asked, "Have you ever tried yoga? You should try yoga." Oh, believe me, lady. I've fucking tried it all right.

So basically, I'm fat, all my problems are due to my fatness, and I should do things to be less fat. Well thanks, it's lovely to work with you as well.

You've Been Served

2011-08-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

My office sub-leases office space to a few other lawyers. This means sometimes people show up to see them, people drop things off for them, etc. Not all the of lawyers are in our office full-time. One entire law firm has their main office in another part of the Bay Area, and they rent a small space from us. Every so often they call us and request to reserve the conference room or small office, and they show up for a few hours.

On Thursday, an old woman came in and announced she wanted to serve me. I asked who exactly, she wanted to serve. She mentioned one of our sub-tenants. Immediately I picked up the phone to call that lawyer's other office, to make sure it was kosher to accept service on their behalf. The lawyer was really nice, and assured me it was okay. He told me the woman was a new lawyer and imagined she was quite young. As she looked on, I stammered, "Uhh... it's actually in the opposite direction." There was a pause, and then, "Oh!"

This woman's hands were shaking! She was TERRIFIED. So, let's talk a little bit about process servers. Across the board, they're usually men. Now, sometimes it can be a dangerous job. Some people become really hostile when they get served. Usually men. If you're serving a corporation it's no big deal. But say a battered wife is filing for divorce and having an abusive husband served. Say the abusive husband with a temper gets served at work. They get embarrassed. They get loud. They then attract the attention of their coworkers and then feel humiliated that everyone knows. Then they get violent. Some people really do kill the messenger.

Anyway. Lawyers can act as process servers (in certain circumstances, maybe only in certain states), as this woman was. I've never seen any lawyer so blatantly nervous. She didn't arrive at our offices prepared, which struck me as unprofessional. When you're delivering documents, the documents should be in final, bound, stapled or clipped together neatly, and ready to be handed over.

This woman spread everything out on the front counter, and created a big mess of paperwork. The image of Pig-Pen came to mind. At one point, she asked me if she needed to clip the paperwork together. It's possible my jaw dropped before I collected myself enough to tell her, "I'm not a lawyer, so I really can't give you any legal advice." I wanted to shout, "Pull yourself together, woman! Think about what you're saying!" Even a layperson should know the answer to that one. If you're handing someone a document, should it look messy, or should it look professional? This is not rocket science. Clearly nerves had gotten the better of this woman. It was sad.

On Friday, the sub-tenant showed up, and wanted to confirm he'd reserved the conference room for an up-coming deposition. I love depositions! This news made my day. People get really freaked out if while they're speaking, someone is writing down every single little thing they say. And as long as a deposition is about individuals rather than corporations, emotions are flying high and you can count on drama.

The sub-tenant then informed me that the nervous lawyer would be at the deposition. He laughed as my eyes lit up in excitement. I hope they leave the conference room door open so I can listen!

Facts of ... Work

2011-08-04T22:16:00.000-07:00

For the last two days, Turkey's been walking around with a weird mark on his face. There was some minimal contemplation as to what it could be. Ring worm? It was as if none of us felt mentally prepared to stumble across some sordid truth.

Today Turkey came up to my desk and announced, "Are you just being polite, or did you really not notice this?" while pointing to his cheek. I gave a shit-eating grin and replied, "I'm super polite! But, are you okay? What happened?" Turkey explained that he was playing ball (he plays ball once a week) and got hit in the face by the ball. I gasped! "Did you fall down?" Turkey beamed at my attention and concern. "I did. I did fall down! Then I shook myself off, got some water, and went right back into the game." I nodded approvingly. "That's what a real athlete does." That comes across as sort of kiss-asseque but I really mean and believe it.

Today when Turkey came back from his therapy session (I'm not supposed to know that) he gave me a bouquet of flowers. I sputtered out all the appropriate wows and thank yous and asked what the occasion was. Turkey smiled and said he didn't want to make my ego any bigger "but let's just say you're very professional and classy and it's noticed."

HA HA HA! He thinks I'm classy! Turkey then went into a meeting. The Wasp came over to ask why he gave me flowers. I shrugged. "Guess all those blowjobs are finally paying off." Yeah. Because I'm classy.

Summer 2011: Airing of the Grievances

2011-08-02T21:36:00.000-07:00

Not identifying yourself when calling someone. It's one thing when you're calling your friend that you've known for seven years, someone you're so close with that you know her husband only has one ball from that time he fell funny on the monkey bars. But when you're calling your lawyer's office? You need to realize that I *will* lie to you, with zero hesitation about whether or not Turkey is in the office, depending on who you are. You can't possibly know all the criteria, so you've got to just hope for the best, hope you're at the top of Turkey's priority list and announce yourself. Every single time I call anyone Turkey works with, I say, "Hi! This is Green, from Turkey Burnstein's office. How are you?" I ask how they are not because I care, but to give them time to process what I said and figure out who I am. When I answer the phone and a voice just starts talking at me (and no, my law firm does not have caller ID), I am not going to give out any information about whether Turkey is available to talk, or to meet with their expert, until I know who they are. Please, I beg of you. Practice saying your name, and when you call someone, announce it.
Shit, I forgot.
Oh yeah. In New York, when you are buying something in a store, the cashier tells you, "That'll be $1.82." In response, you say, "Out of $2," while digging out two singles. As soon as you tell the cashier how much you'll be providing, they start pulling together your change, based on that. Thus, you hand over the bills in one hand and the cashier puts your change in the other hand. This doesn't work in San Francisco, and it drives me nuts. If I say, "Out of $2," nothing happens. The cashier just stands there looking at me. This is supposed to be such a trusting place. People hitchhike here! Why don't they believe the money's coming? It could save so much* time!
Being habitually late. It's one thing if Something's Happened and you're late. Especially if you call the person to say you're running late. But to be late for everything, every single time? Completely unacceptable. It says you have zero respect for the other person. For the time they took out of their day to make time for you. Turkey is late for everything. For everyone. He will schedule a meeting for 10am, show up at 10:14 (or 10:44, whatever), and say to the person, "Oh, you're early!" I started noticing lately that I disregard every deadline Turkey gives me. Because he doesn't stick to his own schedules and deadlines, what's the purpose of stressing myself out to stick to them? He's constantly telling me something "must!" go out today, and three weeks later it will still be waiting for his final approval. If someone has a kid, I give them a pass. Maybe their kid saw a rock on the ground and were fascinated and needed to talk about it Right Then while staring at it. Or maybe your dog slipped past your legs when you opened the door to leave and you're late because you had to run after it. Or maybe you're in trial. Things happen. But when you're late for everything? All the time? Unacceptable.

*Yes, it saves like thirty seconds. But those second can add up!

Crushing the Possibility of Us Ever Becoming Best Friends

2011-07-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

(Every time I arrive at Blogger and begin typing the title, it shows up in Hindi and I have to press the toggle button to turn off Hindi, lest the majority of you be unable to read my witty titles. Does this happen to anyone else who uses Blogger?)

I do a lot of reading. When I wasn't working, I read an average of a book every day and a half. Now that I am working, I read through my lunch hour, and then before I go to sleep. And sometimes after work if I'm hyper and want to calm down.

In walking distance of my apartment is a little tiny library with funky hours. There's a bigger library a little ways away, but it costs $2 to get there. Often when I go to the little library it seems I've already read all their good books and there's nothing left. That's how I wind up doing dumb things like reading Danielle Steel or (dead) V.C. Andrews and getting angry at myself for thinking they might not suck (they do, every time).

On good days I show up at the library and go to the Reserve Shelf to yank the books off the shelf that they've set aside for me based on reserving them online (I fucking love living in the future sometimes). On good days I stumble across a new author who it turns out has written 24 books. That fills me with the same feeling as when I open the refrigerator and see I have one yogurt for each day of the week. On good days I walk down to the little library with a list of books I've compiled. Maybe I saw someone on the bus reading something that looked good. Maybe a magazine wrote a blurb about a new book. Maybe Wide Lawns has been reading.

I can't remember how I found out about the book Malled, by Caitlin Kelly, but the second time I stumbled across the title I was in a position to pop online and reserve it at the library. I was excited! She's writing about working at the mall. I worked in a mall! She's writing about working in a mall in New York. I worked in a mall in New York! I envisioned a lot of smiling and nodding as I read. Then the e-mail came from the library that the book was waiting for me. So I trotted on down to the library as fast as my little legs would take me and fetched my book about a woman working in a mall in New York.

Yeah um.... the book fucking sucked you guys. This woman tried to imply that she was now on the "other side of the cash wrap" but the truth is, she worked one day a fucking week for the most part. Her editor must have HATED her to allow Kelly to come across as such an elitist bitch. She writes multiple times about how highly educated she is, how she's fluent in foreign languages (as if her co-workers from Spanish Harlem aren't?), how she can relate to her customers because she's so well-traveled. I mean, it's a fucking miracle her ego could fit through the mall doors.

She doesn't just mention these things once, at the beginning of the book, to introduce herself to readers and explain her circumstances, but over and over again. Kelly also writes more than once about how even though part of her job is to clean the employee bathroom, she flat-out refuses to do that.

Kelly clearly lives in some other world, because she seems surprised that she only gets one break in eight hours of working, and that working in a clothing store is physical labor. I was almost surprised she didn't bitch about her hands getting filthy from touching dollar bills for an entire shift. That's what I remember most about being a cashier - how dirty my hands got from touching money. Probably why to this day I come home from work and immediately wash my hands.

It almost seemed like this was meant to be a similar book to Nicked and Dimed, but missed. Where Kelly wanted the reader to feel sympathy for her, I was only able to feel disgust. If you want me to feel sorry for you that you work ONE shift a week in a mall, then don't talk to me about buying a $200 shirt from Saks and going to Paris on vacation.

In one spot, Kelly seems confused as to why, when she tentatively reached out to her co-workers by inviting them to her house, they blew her off. It doesn't seem to occur to her that perhaps the fact that she thinks she's better than them seeps through in her interactions with them.

When I worked at the clothing store (men's clothing) in the mall, I was lucky enough to be able to wear sneakers. My jaw dropped at reading that Caitlin Kelly got to wear shoes that North Face gave her. For free. To keep. You know those are high quality shoes right there. Actually, they're way more expensive than I can afford. Kelly talked about her experience with the horror one would usually reserve when recounting their time in a sweatshop. My utter disgust for her as a person distracted me from the story multiple times.

I know that some of you actually buy books, whether from bookstores or on those Kindles and iPads or whatever you've got. If you're intrigued by the story enough to want to read Malled, please don't waste your money on it. I know some people have Germ Issues with library books, but I read them all the time and generally only get sick once a year. Just get it from the library. Then go to the mall and be nice to the people who work there. It's not their fault their stupid company forces them to welcome you to the store and then tell you exactly what the 400 signs say that are plastered all over the store.

Smug (Un)Marrieds

2011-07-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday was the going-away lunch for the architect. By the way, lest I complain too much about this job, just let it be said that thanks to this job I now know how to spell architect.

So each time I looked over at the office manager, she seemed to be sitting kind of primly, and I knew she was not having fun, sitting across from the billing guy. He's a bit weird. He tries to make jokes and they're never funny. About half the time they're actually disturbing.

Anyway, somehow the topic of marriages came up. Yes, not really appropriate for a work lunch, but there it was. The Turkey's personal assistant (if you're wondering why she was invited to a firm lunch you're not alone), who is not married or in a relationship, mentioned that if she gets married she doesn't want to live with her husband.

I, owner and president of Big Mouths, Inc., immediately asked, "How would that work? You want to marry someone in the military who's stationed overseas? All the time?" She laughed, shaking her head no. She then described what amounts to a castle with a moat and a drawbridge, and she would live in the castle and the husband would not.

Now, I've never been married so I can't be sure, but ... that's hella weird, right? Like, doesn't not living with your spouse kind of defeat the purpose of marriage? Not that you have to be married to live together, but isn't marriage all about doing most of your living WITH the spouse?

She tried to act like this was la la la, just a little quirky but totally in a fun and loveable way, la la la. But what kind of guy would want to sign up for that deal? The kind of guy who has a second wife, that he LIVES WITH? My friend always says "there is a lid for every pot" and maybe there is some straight guy out there who wants to be married but not live with his wife.

Here's my thinking on that though: with some things, you've got little quirks and they're part of what make you that much more loveable. At a certain point though, too many quirks or too many big quirks stop being quirks and just make you weird, and not in the good way.

I kept my mouth shut. I'm certainly no expert on marriage, by any stretch. On the walk back to the office, I was with the WASP (married) and office manager (divorced). The office manager told us she chatted with the billing guy about books and movies, and the WASP and I agreed she had a much more appropriate firm lunch conversation than we did.

Then the WASP went off. Complete with f-bomb and everything. About what? About the PA's fantasy marriage. I believe her exact words were, "That's not a fucking marriage!" We all stopped walking, right there on the sidewalk, to stare at her in shock. I mean, she's a WASP! She simply doesn't curse. She wears turtlenecks and low ponytails.

It was really funny to hear her get so riled up. I was glad it wasn't only me who thought the idea of marriage that way was really weird.

It's Not ALL Bad

2011-07-13T20:52:00.000-07:00

This is the architect's last week, so today we went out for a goodbye lunch. I know there's a heatwave going on in most of the country this week, and my heart goes out to all of you sweaty, crabby people, but it's cold and foggy in San Francisco. People are wearing coats and scarves here. Except for the tourists who think all of California is Los Angeles so they are wearing shorts, with a sweatshirt that says San Francisco that they bought in over-priced Fisherman's Wharf. Those poor tourists - someone should tell them they could buy the same shit in the Mission for half the price.

Anyway, it's cold. That's the point (so far). So when we went to our lunch the restaurant had turned on the outside heaters. I wound up having to sit right under one, although I'd have preferred to sit as far away from it as possible because I'm a sensitive snowflake who overheats easily.

While we were all getting settled and figuring out what we wanted to order, I apparently waved my hand in front of my face without realizing it. Turkey, who was sitting across from me, asked if I was hot. I didn't want to be a complainer, so I admitted I was, but added that I was fine. He told me the entire left side of my face was bright red. Within 30 seconds he'd flagged someone down and asked if they could turn the heat lamp off.

For all of the Turkey's drinking in the bathroom each morning, hiding jellybeans in the bathroom, losing checks from clients, lying and being passive-aggressive, he did something good today. I was really grateful the heater was turned off. Climbing over his personal assistant once I needed to puke probably would have resulted in a mess on top of her head.

When I overheat it's not just that I get a little uncomfortable. I truly get physically ill. Unfortunately Turkey is such an ego-maniac that I couldn't thank him as profusely as I'd have thanked anyone else, otherwise it'd have gone to his head and he'd bring it up to me any time he wanted me to do something corrupt in the future.

Probably Not What My Parents Meant

2011-07-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I had no friends. Far to often for my enjoyment my parents would give me big speeches about how I needed to have friends. This was talked about a lot, and it made me feel like shit, because I didn't feel in control of the ability to make/keep/have friends. It apparently comes naturally to some kids. Not me. Even as an adult, it still doesn't come naturally. Now I'm pretty good at it, but it takes an inappropriate amount of effort and thinking. I am fascinated by people that make and keep friends without blinking an eye.

When my father was in San Francisco last year, he gave me a backpack he got from his company that he didn't need anymore. This was great, because I'd wanted one for years. At first I was overwhelmed by the choices, and then I wasn't in a position to buy one. So for someone else to take the decision-making away from me by just giving me one was perfect. Sometimes Tim, you really can just make it work. Now when I have to take my laptop somewhere, I'm not wrapping it in the towel I use after showers and sliding the whole thing in a tote bag. It's great. I love it. I thought seriously about sending my father a formal thank you card in the mail.

Then he came back to San Francisco this year. He had another extra backpack. Same as the first, but in another color. I told him I didn't need it. He said it was okay. I told him I might be tempted to give it to someone else. He said it was okay. So I started with my brother, since he'd shown interest in the first one. Golden Boy wasn't interested.

Every day on the way to work I walk past a homeless guy who stands on the corner near my house and has a big black dog. The dog is so mellow, that sometimes the homeless guy has to go somewhere, and he leaves the dog on the corner, and it just stays there. Sometimes the homeless guy ... receives guests on his corner.

I decided to see if this homeless guy was interested in the backpack. Then I realized saying, "Hey, you're homeless; want a used backpack?" probably wouldn't go over too well. I don't know why this guy is homeless. Usually most homeless people have obvious mental problems and it's easy to assume they're too nutty to hold down a job that would afford rent.

This guy doesn't seem crazy at all. Which is actually really impressive, when you think about it. I mean, screws were falling out of my head left and right when I was just contemplating becoming homeless!

So I spent a few days letting it roll around my head. How do you ask if someone wants something without implying you think because of their circumstances, they might need it? Finally I came up with something I thought might not be too insulting. So last Monday when I saw him, as I waited for the traffic light to turn green, I tossed out, "Hey, I have an extra backpack. Do you know anyone who could use one?" He immediately responded with, "Sure. We can always use extra backpacks."

Whew. Not only did he get my point (that thankfully didn't come out too clunky), but he responded in kind. Relief! So I said, "Okay. Tomorrow?" as in, you'll be here tomorrow, and I'll bring the backpack. He nodded.

The next day I brought the backpack and he wasn't there. So I hauled it to work. The next morning, when I saw him, I gave him a look like, "what happened?!" and he said he was sorry, but it was raining, and gestured at the dog. Okay, that makes sense. So I told him the backpack was at work, but if he could be in the area that evening, between 5:30 and 6, I could bring it by then. He agreed.

I hauled the backpack on the way home from work. He wasn't there. I was sweaty and frustrated and pissed. With him, for not living up to his obligations, and with myself, for assuming a homeless person would have a watch and be able to honor commitments. I thought about it all day, trying to see things from his perspective. Maybe I was making assumptions. Maybe there is a line in his eyes, between his people and other, non-homeless people. Maybe his people make plans in a more vague way, like "tomorrow" or "next week."

Maybe whatever it is that holds him back from being ... homeful, reared its' head in making regular plans, and it was just too much for him. I still wanted to give him the backpack. I didn't want to carry it to work yet again. The decision I made was to take a day off from making arrangements, and then just spring it on him. Maybe that would work better. The next morning as soon as he saw me, he started apologizing. "Sorry about yesterday; I had to meet with the police..." I waived him off and told him it was no problem, as if my plans often fall through due to police meetings.

The following morning, I brought the backpack with me. I guess the homeless guy's dog had been following our interactions, because it shoved its face in my hand and wagged as soon as I walked by. The guy was there, and I gave him the backpack finally. He thanked me. He stuck out his hand, and then ... kind of pulled it back an inch or two. The only thing I could think of was that he thought maybe I wouldn't want to touch him. I'm prissy, and I'm sure it shines through. But there's Dial soap at work, and I grabbed his hand before he could pull it back any farther.

Since then, every morning the dog wags each time I walk by, and the guy says hello to me, and we chat if the traffic light is red. I guess I'm kind of friends with a homeless guy now.

Living Up to Stereotypes

2011-07-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of cliches about lawyers. "Ambulance chaser" come to mind for anyone? They seem to have a reputation of being difficult to work for. I've always been surprised by this. Granted, I've only ever worked as a legal secretary in my adult career (except for two years when I was also working part time at a tennis club), but overall I don't find lawyers, as a group, difficult. Precise? Yes. Upset when documents are not precise? Yes. But it's an environment where you know the rules, and if you follow them (very precisely) nobody gets hurt.

Forgetting things is not allowed. Forgetting to send out a cc? Unacceptable. Forgetting to remove the bcc page before sending a letter? Well, you could wreck an entire case doing that. Sometimes millions of dollars are on the line. Lives (literally) are on the line. A grin combined with a shrug and an "oops!" is not an adequate excuse. Nothing is.

Lest you be feeling sympathy pressure, please don't. You don't feel like you're being held to an impossible standard, because the attorney is holding him or herself to that same standard. They make sure the document they reference in a letter is attached to that letter. They make sure every character in the letter is spaced perfectly. All mistakes, no matter how little, are big mistakes, because they are attached to their name.

And then there's Turkey. Never mind the Answer we submitted last minute with the Valentine's exhibits. The office manager has informed me Turkey is drinking on the job. On both Thursday and Friday she smelled alcohol on his breath. I've worked at law firms that were laid back enough that on Fridays you'd sometimes see partners walking around without their shoes on, drinking a beer in the afternoon. But the cliche of keeping a bottle in the bottom drawer? Never saw it before Friday, when the Office Manager pointed out the open tequilla bottle in his bottom right drawer.

Turkey schedules lots of phone conferences. He's bad at staying on schedule, so when I arrange for Joe Schmoe and he to talk, I gently nudge Joe to be the one to initiate the call, since getting Turkey to do that is next to impossible, and getting him to do it on time never happens. Even with that effort, Turkey still misses them.

Last week he had a half hour meeting with a client scheduled. Three hours later the client walked out. Yeah. Not exaggerating. So almost every half hour I was saying, "I just wanted to let you know it's 4:30 now," because he kept coming out to ask me to copy things and let him know when it was time to do the next thing on his calendar.

He has me schedule in-office meetings in the morning, doesn't show up for them, doesn't answer his cell phone when I call, and then waltzes in late and has forgotten he's meeting them. Why bother having a blackberry synched to your Outlook calendar if you'll never check it?

You may think it's not a big deal to be late, but I disagree. It's so disrespectful to the other person who's carved time out of their life for you. Nobody shows up to work on time, because the Turkey never shows up on time. He routinely schedules a staff meeting once a week at 9:30, and routinely doesn't arrive in the office in time for it. Yet if I address the issue head-on by saying, "Do you want me to schedule next week's staff meeting for 11:30?" he'll say no.

Turkey doesn't chase ambulances because he doesn't do personal injury law. However. In the engagement letters he sends out, he gives prospective clients a deadline to sign and return the letters. On Friday he told me to contact a woman and "ask if she's hired someone else." Okay, if you know the slightest thing about sales you'll know that's not the way to save a sale. No need to suggest they hire someone else! But before I contacted her (to ask if she was still interested in having us represent her), I checked her engagement letter. Her deadline is weeks away! Why would we call her now? I e-mailed Turkey letting him know this and asking if he still wants me to call.

The office manager is fed up. At one point she was saying she would stick it out until she retires in a couple of years, but now she's saying she can't take it and needs to start her job search. Both she, and the WASP have asked me to schedule as many appointments for the Turkey out of the office as humanly possible. I do. I also try to schedule things around 4pm, in the hopes he won't bother coming back to the office, because he's known for pulling people into meetings at 5:26, or dumping a project he deems urgent on your desk at 5:28.

Turkey inspires me. He makes me want to send flowers to every great lawyer I've ever worked for, thanking them for being such a pleasure to deal with.

Give Me An Attitude Adjustment

2011-07-05T21:51:00.000-07:00

Did you know I don't drink soda? Nothing carbonated. Ever. Once, in the 80's, my mom was sitting in the living room drinking what looked like water. I went over and asked, "Is that water?" She suggested, "Try it," and held her glass out to me. So I took the glass, took a sip, and ran into the kitchen to spit out the seltzer. My heart was shattered; why would she do that to me?

As I got older, maybe once every other year or three if I was really nauseous, my parents would encourage me to drink some Coke, and I'd lean against the kitchen counter, pouring half a Dixie cup's worth of Coke back and forth between two cups to get the bubbles out before forcing myself to take three or four sips.

One of the things that I like about living by myself is only having to clean up messes I make, and not any other people make. This philosophy should apply everywhere, don't you think? If you're walking down the street and you drop a piece of paper you've decided you no longer need, you should pick it up. Personal accountability is a beautiful thing.

At work, Turkey came up to my desk in the sunken living room after I got back from lunch to tell me that a Coke can in the refrigerator froze and exploded. "I started to clean it up, but then got some urgent calls I had to return so stopped." Then he asked me to finish cleaning up spilled soda all over the kitchen. You know how your dad would "suggest" you go clean your room? It was like that. Saying no was not an option.

I never, ever use the kitchen. One of the first few days I was temping, the office manager told me Turkey steals people's food if they leave it in the kitchen. So I just never use the kitchen. Because I know me, and me in a rage, will not end well for me who wants to stay employed. Stealing from me is definitely a good way to put me in a rage. So I just never use the kitchen.

It is part of my job to order the sodas. There are six people working there, and they aren't even all full-time. I order four different types of soda. To be honest, the first time I ordered, I fucked up the order. It was like when I was in second grade taking my very first spelling test, and didn't understand that the teacher was saying two different spelling words when she said "book" and then "books." I didn't realize that there was a difference between Diet Coke and Caffeine Free Diet Coke or some shit like that. Maybe it was Diet Zero Coke and Diet Coke? I don't know.

I was a cashier at a supermarket when I was 14, and some of the major foods had codes that you typed into the cash register (that's right, pre-scanners) instead of typing in the price. I'm 34 now, and it kills me that I remember that Coke was code 103 and Pepsi was code 104, but I can't remember which fucking bus to take to get to Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house. By the way in case you're curious, as a cashier I was able to conclude that although people bought more Pepsi than Coke, when Coke went on sale and was less expensive than the Pepsi, it flew off the shelves. People like Coke better. Or, they did in 1991.

Anyway, I was royally pissed off about being asked to clean up someone else's mess. I'm not a fucking janitor, you know? Turkey is such a liar (he lies ALL the time) that I didn't even believe him about a soda freezing and exploding all by itself. Why would ONE freeze but others, right next to that one on the same shelf, not freeze? Why is the refrigerator freezing anything at all? Nothing else froze. I wouldn't be surprised if Turkey accidentally knocked the can over and it fell onto the floor and then he opened it anyway.

I was so angry that I needed to go calm down. I called Golden Boy and told him. The bitch of it was, I knew I needed to get over myself and just do it. You wanted a job? Here's a job - go clean Coke off the fucking floor and be happy you're getting paid to do it. This is what small firms are all about - having to run to the court house, having to change light bulbs, having to clean soda up.

You know what the turning point was for me? When Golden Boy admitted that it totally sucked. That was all I needed - for someone else to acknowledge the bullshit. We hung up, I futzed around for a few more minutes, and then cleaned up the floor, the counter, and the shelves in the refrigerator. It took less than five minutes.

This is a really shitty job. Today was shittier than most days. I told myself that I would just be amused at the ridiculousness of it all. Whatever wacky shit happened would just be viewed as blog fodder. Today I lost that perspective. It must stay with me, always.

Vote With Your Fork

2011-07-03T08:14:00.000-07:00

I was reading this article by Marion Nestle where one of the phrases she says, is to vote with your fork.

One of the things she says is that you set an example, and make it social acceptable for others to care. There are no grocery stores in San Francisco that use plastic bags anymore. The smaller food grocery stores, like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods sell reusable bags, and most give you five cents off your bill or something if you bring your own bag. However, they also have brown paper bags for bagging food.

Maybe a year ago, a TJMaxx opened two blocks away, and because I'm an old lady, I went to check it out. I bought a frying pan, and they gave me a reusable bag for it. When I go food shopping, I try to remember to bring it with me. I can't even tell you how many people have commented on it. Always tourists.

I'm not the most environmentally friendly person around, but I'm always happy to promote doing something that's less damaging, so I'll stand there and talk about how no, it's not a huge inconvenience to go through life without plastic bags. Yes, it really is possible to remember your bags when going food shopping. Then I tell them how to get to Macy's, Old Navy, or Fisherman's Wharf.

It's almost like, because I do so little for the environment, I owe it to said environment to encourage others to do what I do. Because it practically is the least that can be done. I'd like to get better in this area. The whole bringing-my-own-bags and refusing bags in stores is not enough. Buying more organics, buying less meat, recycling, composting - these all need to happen. I would like to make sure I donate everything that can be donated, rather than throwing things out. Does it make sense that I want to set a better example for myself?

I Used to Love Soap Operas

2011-06-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

As a little girls, I called them "so boppers" and then learned they were really called "soap boppers." I never questioned the reasoning behind this term. Little kids are so open to learning, you could probably tell them all sorts of weird untrue shit and get away with it.

I'm older and wiser now, and love nothing more than asking questions. It's weird to work at a place where nobody likes the boss. Wait, it's not that people don't like him. They actively dislike him. Here's one of the gems that endeared him to the staff (before I got there):

When it's someone's birthday, he takes the firm out to lunch. The firm pays for it. When it was Turkey's birthday, he chose a super-expensive restaurant. Like, the kind of restaurant where you're being modest if you only get three courses. He got all five courses though. The bill came, and he refused to put down the company credit card, saying it was his birthday and he wasn't paying for it. Word in the sunken living room is people were kicking each other under the table freaking out that they each had to plunk down over $100, on a day when they thought they'd be getting a free lunch. People were beyond furious. And he claimed to not understand why.

On Friday, when the WASP and Office Manager were telling me these types of stories, I confessed that the one thing I didn't understand was Turkey's gay lovah. I mean, he's kind of hot, he's French, he dresses well, he's younger. He could do better. Why was his married to this Turkey?

So glad you asked! Gay lovah was a counter person at Bloomingdales for years, it seems. Years! Until he got fired for stealing. Then Turkey got him a job at an upscale furniture showroom through a client from the firm. How'd they meet, you ask? Lucky for you, I asked too! Well. Gay Lovah was married before Turkey. To a WOMAN. To which my jaw dropped, and I asked Office Manager, "Turkey TURNED Gay Lovah?!" She laughed. Apparently, they both went on some vacation for boy toys to meet sugar daddies, and that's how they wound up together. Gay Lovah has a sweet deal. I mean, aside from having to live with the Turkey, and you know, be his gay lovah. Not that I think gay love is gross, but that Turkey himself is quite gross, in both looks and personality.

Office Manager also shared that Gay Lovah contributes about $600 a month towards their household. They have a home worth over a million dollars. Turkey has this law firm. The two of them go on fancy trips two to four times a year. They eat out often, see shows often, go to the opera. Sweet deal. Except for the Turkey part. Now if Gay Lovah had hooked up with the Hot Gay Subtenant I'd be in awe of that, because Hot Gay Subtenant is outrageously hot and also totally helpful and pleasant to be around.

So that's the story of how the Turkey got his Gay Lovah husband. And how did you meet YOUR husband?

Changing Your Mindset

2011-06-22T21:03:00.000-07:00

I wonder how long it takes to go from being food-stamp poor to being upper-middle class rich, in your head.

Tonight I rolled $26.50 worth of coins. It took about 20 minutes. I know a lot of people who say they don't have time to roll coins. I think what they truly mean is that they don't want to use their time to do that. So they are willing to spend money to have a machine sort and count their coins for them. I am not. I never have.

It's the principle of it. Who the fuck am I, a doctor? What am I so busy doing that I can't take the time to roll coins every few months? Granted, I grew up with a dad who worked full time, and took an active roll in parenting his two kids, and was a husband who I routinely saw sitting on the edge of his bed rolling coins some weekend mornings.

Recently my brother told me the grocery store near him will count your coins for you, and then give you a gift card to their store in that amount. It's a chain I use, and sounds like a great idea. Except it'd cost me $2 to get to that store. I'll have to look and see if the one near me does it. It's a little satellite store, so they don't have all the bells and whistles.

But I wonder how rich I'd have to be to let a machine count my coins even if it charged a fee, or a percentage. I wonder if I'll ever not get a rush when I see that a product I use is on sale. People say being poor builds character and shit like that. Sure, but it also changes your mindset. There's nothing noble or good about feeling insecure about having a roof over your head, enough money to eat. It doesn't build character to be sad at having to put on shoes that are wet because it's been pouring for three days in a row and your shoes haven't had a chance to dry before you have to wear them again.

The Turkey handed me some crumpled up papers today, to throw out for him. He was standing right in front of the garbage pail. Literally, his shoe was touching it. He is exactly the type of person who I bet has never rolled his own coins.

Permanent

2011-06-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

It's official. As of yesterday I am a permanent employee at Turkey, LLP. I am officially a real person* again.

I need to pay off my debts. According to the judgment from Small Claims, I owe 9am a chunk of change. Less, much less, than he sued me for, but still. I owe my parents money. Last time they were in town, my dad said as far as he's concerned, I should pay off the "official" debts and pay him back last.

There are wedding and baby presents to be bought. There are so, so very many people I want to take out to dinner for all their support. And by "out to dinner" I mean "to Hawaii for a two-week vacation."

One of my priorities is to move out of my apartment. Right now I am tentatively thinking about trying to make that happen after the summer is over.

I'm going to find out if I should be paying 9am through the courts. I want to pay him once and be done with it, and I may have to pay interest, so I'm going to deal with this debt first. Then I will pull my credit report and pay off debts based on that. My hope is this will all be done within a year.

In other news, Turkey found the check the client gave him. It was in one of his briefcases, and he found out standing like 15 feet from me. Also, today he called my cell phone after I'd left work at 5:30. Twice. Both times for things he should have been able to figure out himself. One time for something that could have waited until tomorrow.

*I don't mean that if you don't work you're not a real person. I mean that when I don't work, I have no money and can't participate in life like a regular person does.

Paranoia, Justified

2011-06-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

The lawyer, who I want to refer to as Turkey for some reason, went to a court date last week, and met the client there. Well, not actually the real client. I'm not exactly clear on the details, but the Chinese mob is involved, not everyone involved speaks English, and some experts hired to help with the case who, in other instances would barely be involved, are very involved due to their translating services. Which, by the way, should be a paying gig, but in this instance is not. Anyway.

The point is, the Turkey went, and was given a $16,000 (that's sixteen thousand dollars) check right before the hearing. A lot of clients dispute their bills and in reading what they send to the arbitration board about Turkey, he has a tendency to do two things:

Work, work, work until it's time for the big court date, and then tell the client he can't continue (i.e. show up in court) unless they give him more money
Say you're in South Dakota, and need to get to Kansas. Any sane person would just plow through Nebraska and call it a day. The Turkey though, will drive to Utah, down to Texas, and then meander through Illinois before getting to Kansas. What should have taken a tank and a half of gas takes Turkey nine tanks.

So my point is, he creates environments where clients don't want to pay him. He must have been very excited, more excited than anyone else used to being given such big checks, and naturally he took the check from the client.

Turkey claimed he stuck the check in the file, which is comprised of three redwelds. The next morning, Turkey brought the three redwelds back into the office and dumped them on my desk. I neatened them up, because Turkey is a pig and made a big mess.

Later that day, the billing guy, who's now the billing guy and the guy who does random extra shit, fixed up the file and put it back on the shelf. The day after THAT, Turkey tells us he was given this huge check and he put it in the file. I look, don't find it. I ask the billing guy if he came across a check, he says no. When I give the Turkey this information, he says he must have left the check in his jacket pocket and will check at home that night.

The next day he says he can't find it, and I should check the file again. I do. Then the office manager checks what I'd just checked. Then we double-check with the billing guy. No check. On Wednesday Turkey, Office Manager and I have a meeting. Turkey tells her to call one of the experts and to explain we misplaced the check, would the client cut us a new one, and we'll pay the stop check fee to the bank? Today Office Manager shares that the guy who cut the check (who technically is not the client, just the guy paying on behalf of the client) died. This is not a fancy legal term that means something. Dude is dead. Dude's money is going to be tied up in probate for ages.

Office Manager tells me Turkey knows he always loses things and that she'd bet $16,000 he put the check in his inside jacket pocket. When she tells Turkey the check-giver is dead, he insists the check must be in the file, and tells me to look again. Office Manager offers that she found out it was in an envelope. I flip through Every. Single. Page of that damn file looking for an envelope. No envelope.

While I'm flipping, an idea floats across my brain. As a kid, I was a very, very sneaky little shit. They say that people who steal assume everyone steals. People who lie assume everyone is lying to them. If you exaggerate, you get the point. I'm not sneaky anymore, but I'm still wise to the sneaky ways. I climbed out of my sunken living room into the Office Manager's office, and floated my idea past her. "Maybe I'm paranoid, but what if Turkey finds the check at home and then puts it in the file and claims we just didn't find it when we looked?"

I feel stupid even saying this. Office Manager looked me straight in the eyes and nodded. "He's done that. Exactly that. Expect it."

Whoa. Just because you're paranoid it doesn't mean everyone's not out to get you.

Snapshots of an Employment Agreement

2011-06-13T22:01:00.000-07:00

You will see many things that are wrong. None of them are errors on my part. I am typing exactly what was given to me. Because this is too jaw-droppingly shocking not to share with you guys, especially after all the encouragement you've given me.

Duties: ...You will be asked to make observations on what files can be put away, and periodically ask what other items can be put away. That is one hell of a clunky sentence, am I right? I had to clarify with the lawyer exactly what he meant by the second half. Turns out if I see a random box or a pile of papers, I'm to investigate and overall am in charge of keeping the sunken living room looking nice and orderly.

...We may assign you new or different duties from time to time. Additional duties may be stated in the job manual to employees (I do not have one of these) but to the extent that manual differs from this letter, this letter will control. Will be stated in the manual we will provide to you and a job description when you begin your employment with us. Um, okay? I had to go through this agreement with him today, and it took so much to hold back from saying, "Dude. What the fuck?"

Hours of Employment: 8 hours per day, with sometimes-flexible lunch scheduling between 8:30 am and 5:30 weekdays (with the proviso that you and our office manager f coordinate your lunch schedules so that there is full coverage). ... Asking you to stay any more than that will be something we always try to arrange the prior day. that. On y infrequent occasions you may be asked to work one weekend day.

Overtime: All overtime must be pre-authorized by a partner, so please see me in advance when you feel it is necessary to exceed 8 hours a day. First of all, there are no partners. This lawyer has his firm, and he has ONE part-time associate (the WASP). In order for someone to be a partner, there must be at least one other person to partner WITH, which he does not have. Second of all, he is the ONLY one who ever asks me to stay late. So what he should really say is something like, "Any self-directed overtime must be pre-authorized by me." Or something to that effect.

Sick Days: Paid sick days accrue at the rate of 8/12 day per month. Earned but not taken sick time may be able to be carried forward from one calendar year to the other. On the other hand, payment may be made, at our (who is our? he is ONE guy) discretion, for earned but unused sick days, at each year's end, and will be made at termination.

Vacation: You will have 12 paid vacation days per year, earned as one per month. Vacation days or more than two days must be arranged with the firm at least three weeks in advance, and two days arranged no later than 10 days in advance. Okay, what? Whoever can figure that one out gets a free vacation to Hawaii.

Evaluation: I will give you a performance evaluation at the end of three months and again at the end of six months. This six month period shall be a probationary period, during which either party may terminate with two weeks notice. After probationary period, termination by either party requires three weeks notice to the other party. Please note he switched from "our" and "we" now to "I". You know what has been drummed into me working at law firms for over a decade? Consistency! Even if you are making a mistake, at least make it consistently throughout the document! By the way, California is an at-will state. He can fire me at any time, without giving me any notice, and although it'd be a shitty thing to do, I can leave without giving the standard two weeks notice. Could he sue me in court, telling a judge, "She only gave me two weeks notice instead of the three she agreed to, so I want her to pay the cost of hiring a temp for a week"? Well, he could, except what are the odds of him winning that one?

At the end of the document there's a signature line where I'm supposed to sign. My name is typed underneath the line. As Green Yogurtt. Whoops.

So hey. If you ever wonder what I do all day, I look at documents like these (and I didn't even show you the spacing problems) and fix them before they're sent out to clients. He sends out the most unprofessional-looking shit all the time. Last Friday we sent out a document that was supposed to have about a dozen exhibits. Except since he didn't start working on the document until around 1pm, he ran out of time. So instead of the document saying things like, "In Paragraph 4, Sentence 6 of the attached Engagement Agreement (Exhibit C) Dr. Doodle initials his agreement to blah blah," it said things like, "In Paragraph 4 of the attached Engagement Agreement (see attached) ..."

That's not even the worst part though! The worst is that because the documents referenced weren't referred to as Exhibits, I couldn't use exhibit tabs. Instead, we just used colored pieces of paper to separate each "exhibit" from each other. But wait! We didn't have enough colored pieces of paper that were all the same color. So what we submitted looked like a legal valentine. Pink, red, and purple pages were all shoved in there. Oh, and the "exhibits" were not in the order they were referenced in the document. How unprofessional is that?

I Bought the More Expensive One

2011-06-11T17:19:00.000-07:00

I've been temping for two solid months at the same place. The place where the lawyer is batshit crazy. On Friday, he sent me an email with a letter to me in the body of it, that was supposed to constitute an employment agreement. He sent that with the instruction that I should put it on letterhead and print it out. Neither professional nor classy, but okay. Except. Except that the employment agreement has typos all over it. Which hey, those can be ignored, right? It's a reflection on him, not me. It's just a reflection on my desperation that I'm open to working for someone so unprofessional. My name is misspelled on the signature line though.

There are some parts of the agreement that have run-on sentences, and fragments of sentences. There's a lot of redundancy. In a couple of spots, the writing was so bad I wasn't even sure what he was trying to say. The lawyer tried to get me to sign it right then, and I knew based on the quick skim I'd done, that shouldn't happen. So I refused. "As a lawyer, I'm sure you can understand my wanting to take this home to read when I'm not pressed for time, not interrupted by the phone twice a minute." Reluctantly he agreed, and now is expecting that I'll show up Monday with it signed.

I called Golden Boy and sent the agreement to him, then spread all four pages out on my bed, and we went through each paragraph. Golden Boy was disgusted by this Ivy League lawyer.* "He should be disbarred!" Well. You can't really disbar someone for creating subpar work product, but Golden Boy is not wrong despite that. This lawyer is so unethical that he should be disbarred. He does a slew of illegal things (coughdouble-billingclientscough).

From now on I will refer to this lawyer as Turkey. There's one other lawyer there, the WASPy one, who I cracked, and now don't think of as WASPy at all. Then there's the architect who's getting married later this month and leaving next month to go off to law school. There's also Turkey's personal assistant who's only in the office part-time; nobody likes her. Lastly, there's the part-time billing dude and the full-time office manager who's been there for ten years. She, the WASPy lawyer, and the engaged guy have all told me flat-out, "You don't want to work here." "You're going to keep looking for something else, right? You should."

Come on! I mean, that's a pretty bad sign, right? So I am going to keep looking. In the meantime though, as difficult as it is to work for the Turkey, it's great that I'm finally being offered a steady job with benefits. It's great that I'll have some blog fodder. You know what else is great?

Normally I am not one to count chickens before they're hatched. However. All last week, the engaged dude, the Turkey and his assistant were sick. On Friday the office manager managed to send the engaged guy home early. I Clorox wiped his desk, his phone, the arms of his chair, and Lysol'd the entire office. Looking back, I forgot to Clorox wipe the copier machine. But this morning, I woke up with a sore throat. After volunteering when I got home, I flopped on my bed and slept for almost three hours. When I awoke, my throat hurt even more, and I had fever.

I dragged myself to Walgreens to look for Halls Vitamin C Drops or something to soothe my throat. When I looked at the ingredients I saw there was Red #40 in them. Cold Eeze didn't have any artificial coloring in them, but they were like three dollars more expensive. Artificial coloring in some things negatively affects me so overall I try to stay away. However while I've been out of work I haven't bothered - the things that have that shit are generally less expensive, and so what if it makes my learning disabilities more pronounced if I'm not working?

Today, I spent that extra three dollars. It felt kind of nice to be able to do that.

*This employment agreement is so awful that over the next few blog posts, I will share parts of it with you. We can play, "what do YOU think that means?" It'll be fun. It'll be an example of what you should never do as an employer, and what you should never sign as an employee.

The Right Writing Style

2011-06-05T20:14:00.000-07:00

I don't know anything formal about writing. I took nothing more than the requisite English classes in high school and college. I didn't score particularly high on the English section (or the math section, lest you get the wrong idea) of the SAT's. To be frank, I barely scored mediocrely (perhaps my use of that word is part of the reason why) on either section. My entire trick to writing decently involves attempting to write what I'd enjoy reading. Most of the time I almost succeed, but not quite.

However, for much better tips on how to write well, check out Wide Law ns. When I read her tips, a few of them were things I'd figured out on my own, a couple were things I realized I'd been taught in Composition 101 in college, and several just made total sense even though I'd never heard them before.

This is the type of post that you want to print out and put up on your bulletin board that hangs above your desk. Now all I need is a bulletin board. And a desk. Oh, and an apartment big enough for a desk. Until then, I'm going to make a more conscious effort to write in a more Wide Lawnserly way.

Everything is NOT About YOU

2011-06-01T21:48:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, while my parents were in town, we went to see a movie. Two girls were sitting in the row in front of us, and they had their feet up on the seats in front of them, which pushed their seats back. Directly into my knees. The girl in front of me kept throwing her head back every few minutes, further jamming her seat into my knees. I couldn't find a way to sit that was not uncomfortable. Finally I ran out of patience. I leaned forward, and very quietly said, "Excuse me. Is there any way you could stop pushing yourself back in your seat? It's going directly against my knees every time and really hurting me." Her friend barely looked back at me as she responded, "Why don't you move?"

Why don't *I* move? Because I'm not the one doing something I shouldn't be doing which is then causing someone else difficulty! If you want to do something like put your feet up on the back of the chair in front of you that's none of my business ... until you make it my business. After they finished exchanging "She's such a bitch!" looks, and "Oh my god, can you BELIEVE her?" looks, they each got up and moved to the row ahead of the one they'd been sitting in. My knees and I were very relieved. The bruises should be gone by the end of the week.

Yesterday as I was walking home from work, there was a middle-aged plump woman with a bad perm walking in front of me. She was on her cell phone, and walking slower than the average pace. She was also weaving and each time I tried to move around her, she weaved in front of me. My only option besides continuing on behind her would be to step into oncoming traffic.

I chose to open my big mouth. "You keep weaving in front of me each time I try to pass you," I told her. She looked at me, pausing from her phone call. "Sorry ... bitch!" I was a little surprised to be honest. Probably because it was clear she'd surprised herself by calling me a bitch. She didn't have any way of knowing what I was listening to on my iPod, that I was all pumped up from it. That the song, combined with the physical exercise outside after sitting inside all day, plus her calling me a bitch, shot adrenaline through my system in an instant. I was a little amused by the predicament she'd just put herself into, and my lack of fear clearly made her feel she was in over her head. She scurried ahead and then ran across the street. For half a second I thought about staying on her heels just to rattle her, but did the mature thing and hung back, putting some space between our surprising confrontation.

It got me thinking, though. Twice people did obnoxious things that, while not illegal, a little ... dickish, and twice when these people were called out for their dickish behavior negatively affecting someone else, they got angry. As if the person they'd hurt/annoyed should have just taken it and stayed quiet. As if "me" is more important than "you." Why? And when did this happen? Didn't it used to be different? Didn't people used to trip all over themselves to help others?

When I talked to my friend about this, she suggested that nobody ever wants to be called out on their bad behavior. It's not as if someone littered and I tsk-tsked at them. Why are people caring so much about their lives, their comfort, that they don't care if their comfort infringes on someone else's comfort? How do we change things back, to the time when if we realized we hurt someone, we immediately apologized and felt badly about it?

So I'm a Little Weird

2011-05-22T07:10:00.000-07:00

But this is not new. And it's in a different way. I used to be weird in the bad way, like that girl in third grade who licked walls or whatever. I was weird in that way where you can't help it, and you want to be like everyone else but just can't swing it.

Since moving to San Francisco, home of people not just representing the quirk factor, but competing and winning the quirk factor Olympics, ironically it's gotten me to be more normal. Partially it's because I've spent years shaking off the weirdness of my family, and partially it's because my parents were so particular with how everything had to be done, everything that should be said, and I was perpetually nervous. In San Francisco, it's okay to be weird. Hell, it's practically encouraged. When it's okay to be weird, you're not so nervous you'll screw up being perfect.

At my temp job, there is a weird lady who delivers the mail. I like her! Find her amusing as all get out. She comes up the stairs, and in her little accent sing-songs, "Here is your mai-ail!" Mail is two distinct syllables. She likes to wait to be acknowledged before singing, "Goodbye! Have a nice da-ay!" She sings her sentences in such a way that you expect her to skip instead of walking. That's funny enough, but what cracks me up is the fact that it's all an act. I've run into her on the street a couple of times and she talks normally there when I've asked a mail-related question.

After work on Friday I went to a store nearby to look around, and while I was standing near the stairs she walked in to deliver the mail. When she sang about the mail to the shop employees, they smirked and rolled their eyes to each other. As she walked out she saw me and did a double-take. Any time someone sees a person outside of their element, I always think of my first grade teacher Mrs. Friedman, and how she was so mean and yelly to me, but when my mom and I ran into her at the supermarket she was so nice to my mom. It totally disgusted me that she pretended to be a nice person and didn't let my mom see her true mean side.

We said hi to each other, and chatted for a few minutes. The mail lady didn't sing while we chatted; she was a normal person finishing up her job for the day. Now I don't remember what we talked about, but it was very casual chit-chat stuff, and probably just two or three minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the employees looking at me confused. Why would anyone be talking to the mail carrier?

As I walked out of the store, I felt ashamed. I did something by accident that made me look weird. But then I changed my mind. Fuck them and their pretentious hipster judgments. I saw someone I knew, and talked with them. That's normal. If they wouldn't lower themselves to talk to someone, then they should feel ashamed. Not me. I'd rather be thought of as weird for chatting with someone than normal for not lowering myself to talk with someone.

May Madness

2011-05-15T21:55:00.000-07:00

Getting what you want is never quite as good as you think it'll be. It's really hard to go from zero to sixty and that's what I did, literally. This lawyer had me working tons of overtime - so much that some nights I just came home, set my alarm for the morning, and flopped into bed for the night. The having money part is great. The structure to the day is great. It's just hard ramping up. Now he is away in Europe for a couple of weeks, so there's no more overtime while he's gone. Hopefully (sort of) he will make me a permanent employee when he returns from his vacation.

One of the great things about working is it streamlines my reading. I read on my lunch hour every day, and then a couple of chapters at night to calm down enough to go to sleep. When I think about how libraries were in the pre-computer days it makes me sad for all the library goers. How awesome is it to read a magazine, see reviews of books that interest you, reserve them and get an e-mail telling you the books are ready for you to pick up? Remember the olden days when we needed to just go there and hope they had what we wanted? Or when we needed to haul our asses all the way there just to reserve a book?

Meanwhile, one friend died and another friend seems to have dumped me. The first was expected and a years-long, drawn-out process while the other was sudden and shocking. I have cried over both. I have so few friends that to lose one for any reason slays me.

On the home front, the washing machine ate $2 worth of quarters this evening, so a letter was written to the landlord and dropped in the box where rent's supposed to go. Hopefully he will reimburse like he did last time.

There is a little Indian toddler who lives on my floor. She goes with her mother to do laundry, and likes to follow me around any time we see each other. Once she followed me into my house, and I almost stepped on her by accident. I haven't seen her in a few months, but tonight on the way home I saw a little Indian baby who is just the cutest thing, and I want to steal her. There seem to be a lot of babies living here - over a dozen. I count them based on the strollers kept all over the hallways. The landlord likes to write yelly memos in all caps that he puts up around the building, but they're in English and a lot of people here don't read English.

So You Think You Can Dance is starting up in a few weeks, and I'm very excited. Few things make me as happy as seeing people dance who love it.

I have a secret. I have volunteered at the same place for ... two years? There are four or five guys who are there. They all have names like Peter and Steve and I have zero idea which name goes with any of the guys. Of course at this point, not only do they all know my name, but it's been too long and it'd be awkward to ask now. Normally I'm better with names than this - I don't know why the block exists here. I do know the name of the volunteer coordinator, if that redeems me at all.

So that's what is going on here. What's going on with you?

She Slices His Bananas and Salami

2011-04-24T21:21:00.000-07:00

That's not a euphemism for anything. The partner where I'm temping has a personal assistant. Apparently the secretary he fired claimed he had so much work to do that was not firm-related that she couldn't keep up with her legal secretary duties. Now, I have worked for him before, both as his legal secretary and as his personal assistant. Last year when I worked as the PA, he was being audited. The office manager told me his (then) former secretary reported him to the IRS because she hated him. When I worked as the personal assistant it was mostly preparing documents to be sent to the partner's accountant. Which was a waste. There's no reason he couldn't have just sent those documents to the accountant's office and let his staff pluck out the information needed.

Anyway. My point is, the partner likes having a personal assistant. He spends a lot of time flitting around talking about how busy he is, too busy to make phone calls or do client-related work, and instead hires a personal assistant to do things for him. The reality is he wants to retire to Napa like many of his friends have, and just come into the city one or two days a week.

The partner is horridly disorganized. He doesn't even make any attempt to be better, probably because everyone around him is organized in an effort to counter his Pig-Pen-esque messes. On Friday the partner asked me to help him carry things to his car. The truth is, he could have carried it all by himself. Hell, I could have carried it all by myself. He just really likes having people constantly doing things for him. It strokes his ego.

For the last two-plus weeks, I have been working at this place. It is my third time working for this guy. He has been all compliments. I follow through on things. I fix problems the last secretary caused. I get along with all the employees, and the sub-tenants. The office manager has been out for the last two weeks due to illness, and I have handled a slew of things she normally does. Any time the partner asks me if I know how to do something that I don't know how to do, I tell him I'll figure it out, and then I do.

The partner was not allowing the now-fired secretary to calendar anything because she kept screwing up. I calendar things, and it works out just fine. The partner told me he didn't allow the now-fired secretary to work on CC&R's because there is a lot of formatting that could easily get screwed up. I have worked on three. There are many examples like that. Since I started there earlier this month, the partner has consistently complimented me. Two or three times he has said that when the office manager is back he'd like to talk about making this a permanent position. He never gave me any negative feedback.

Then on Friday afternoon the partner told me that next week I should schedule about 45 minutes for us to talk, perhaps during lunch, for him to tell me things I should improve upon, for future jobs. Meaning ... he is not going to hire me? Really? Where is this coming from? He has never had one complaint and now he feels he has 45 minutes worth? This from the man who has gone through six secretaries in less than two years?

On Friday, when he told me this, I was livid as I agreed. This weekend a lot of thinking and re-framing has happened. I was already fighting against counting chickens before they were hatched in terms of waiting for this temporary job to turn into a permanent one. Now I am changing my approach. When I show up tomorrow, it will be with the goal of extending this temp position for as long as possible.

Everyone is hoping the office manager will make it back to work tomorrow, part-time. I want to talk with her about this, since she is very influential with the partner. He doesn't make any big decisions without her. Also, I will ask if she can join in the constructive-criticism lunch hour, because I think it'll go better with her there. I wish he'd do this at the end of the day. 45 minutes is a long time to sit there allowing a wealthy egomaniac to tell you what you should be doing differently or how you can do things better. I'd prefer to be able to go home afterward, in case the constructive criticism makes me want to cry. It'd be better to do that on the train home, rather than in the sunken living room of an office in Union Square.

Why Couldn't I Have a Boyfriend?

2011-04-21T11:26:00.000-07:00

At the place where I'm temping, the lawyer rents out space to other lawyers, which makes them sub-tenants. There are some former sub-tenants who still receive mail here, which means someone has to come by on a semi-regular basis to fetch said mail. One of the people who is a fetcher is a bald, corpulent man. He's probably in his late 30's or early 40's. He walks with a cane. I temped at this place last year, and I remember this guy from then. He'd come up the stairs, ask if he had any mail, and I'd hand it to him. After a while I got busy and told him he could just help himself to the folder where it's kept.
I started temping here again a few weeks ago, and the second day I was here, when he saw me he asked what my plans were for lunch. I was planning to run a bunch of errands I hadn't gotten done before starting to temp, and told him that. When I heard his response of, "Maybe some other time then?" I realized he'd been trying to ask me out. Oh.

Yes. So. The truth is, I had zero interest in going out with him. Even aside from not being physically attracted to him (and it's not because he's bald - there are plenty of hot, bald guys), there are other issues. I'm attracted to people who are smart. Nothing in our brief chats ever led me to believe he's smart. I'm attracted to people who are funny. To people who are the slightest bit extra nice. He did not seem to be any of these things. Plus, every day when I see this guy, he is wearing sweatpants. Not even just regular sweatpants, as if those aren't bad enough. No, he wears sweatpants with elastic around the ankles. Also, he tucks his t-shirts into the sweatpants. To say it's not a good look is a severe understatement. I never really liked the show Seinfeld, but sure did appreciate when Jerry spread the word that it's unacceptable to wear sweatpants in public.

Anyway. If you feel that I must be a snob for not liking this guy, and not wanting to go on a date with him, then so be it. You're attracted to whomever you're attracted to, and I'm not attracted to this guy on any level. I mentioned this asking-out to two people - my friend, and an associate who works here part-time. My friend told me, "Just tell him you have a boyfriend. You have to lie; it's the most humane thing to do." I agree with her. Any other reason I'd give for why I won't go to lunch will just translate to, "I don't like you." And even though I don't, he's not a bad person, just a bad dresser. No reason to make him feel badly.

The associate also told me to lie and tell him I have a boyfriend. But here's the reason it bothered me that she said that: she assumed I don't have one! My friend is my friend - she knows my life. The associate doesn't know I don't have a boyfriend! Why would she assume? Do I in some way LOOK unboyfriendable? I wanted to attack this point and force her to feel as badly as she'd (inadvertently) made me feel. I dug deep down, realized I felt nothing, and borrowed maturity from someone else in order to keep my mouth shut.

But it really hurt my feelings. And every time I think about it, it hurts my feelings all over again.

As If God Gave Me a Little Present

2011-04-17T22:04:00.000-07:00

The lawyer I'm temping for has a personal assistant. She's a little weird, and that's not only my opinion - the office manager and another person have also mentioned it. She seems to treat me as if I'm below her, as if I work for her. I actually did her job for a short time last year, and I hated it. Oh, not that I hated being a personal assistant, but the lawyer doesn't have a designated desk for whoever fills the role. So you sit in an empty office, until the billing guy comes in, and then you move to the conference room, until someone needs to meet with clients, etc.

I like to know where "my" stuff is, "my" place is, when I'm working. So to not have a specific desk throws me. This PA makes herself at home at my desk. She takes my pens, moves my mouse to the wrong side (I'm a lefty), opens drawers in my desk to get whatever she needs. Now, the last person who was sitting at this desk, who was fired, threatened bodily harm to the PA, so I've been really gentle with her, because when I first started it was clear she was very wary.

A couple of times though, she has gotten angry at me when I haven't dropped what I'm doing to do something for her. Which will not do. We're both working for the same person. My job is to do anything related to the business, anything on the legal side. The PA's job is to do anything related to the lawyer personally. She should not be filling out forms for the lawyer's taxes but then giving them to me to photocopy. I am not HER assistant. Unfortunately, since she is a permanent employee and I am a temp, I can't get away with saying anything. What will have to happen is that I will have to be unable to get something done for the lawyer when he wanted, because I was doing something for his PA, so that he can go to her and say, "Hey, you shouldn't be giving Green documents to copy that I told you to work on/things to file."

She wants a very specific pencil case for work, and asked me to find it for her. Um, no. I did a quick check online at two office-supply stores and three minutes later told her I didn't see it, but that she may want to go to the stores in person.

I know that for the dynamics of this office, I'm doing the right thing. But it's hard to keep my mouth shut. Even though I really hate the phrase and pride myself on never ever saying it, the reality is that "it's not my job" to do things for the PA. I look forward to the day when she gets told that. For now though, I will console myself of the memory of her falling down the stairs last week.

Like the Conversation Never Happened

2011-04-13T21:32:00.000-07:00

So I've been temping at this law firm where I've been before. This is my third time at this circus, and the most entertaining visit so far. The dirt will have to wait though, because as exciting as dirt is, there's something even more exciting, which is having this turn into a real job.

Last summer the guy almost hired me, and all that stopped him was the crazy expensive fee he'd have had to pay to the temp agency. When you register with a temp agency you sign a contract with them, stating that once they introduce you to one of their clients, you can not work directly for that client for x number of months. This was the place where I was earning less money working than I'd get from unemployment. But I stuck it out, for exactly this reason. Well, and because if unemployment finds out you turned down a job then that's grounds for not being paid UI. Oh okay, and yes, also because the longer I wasn't using up my pot of unemployment money, the longer it'd last. When I left he was sad, and assured me I could use him as a reference.

Anyway so today. He's interviewing. To hire someone to sit where I'm sitting. Though he told me something about wanting someone with paralegal experience. Which I don't have. I saw two of the resumes of people he was interviewing - one guy has been working as a paralegal for seven years and is currently in law school. I can't compete with that! Except that I can, because that guy is overqualified and would leave the second he got his JD. Well, or the second he passed the Bar.

So I'd tossed my hat in the ring on Monday, but didn't hold out much hope for anything but that it'd take the lawyer a long time to make a decision so I could keep earning money. Today, when he was about to walk out of the office to go see a client, he told me that next week he'd like to talk with me about making this permanent. I have a feeling he wants to wait until next week only because his beloved office manager is out sick this week and he wants to run it by her. She loves me and probably told him to snap me up before someone else does. I hope she doesn't die.

When he told me about talking next week, I pointed out that he could call himself on his cell phone from his office phone, since he said I could use him as a reference. He really liked that one, and laughed heartily, saying, "Touché." That's me, witty and breezy.

Let's make a deal, Internet Friends (some of whom have crossed over to Real Friends): if I get this job and turn into a Real Person, you'll get to read all about the story that involves the following nouns. 1. date 2. lunch 3. sweatpants

It has been oh so very long since I was a Real Person, what if I don't remember how to do it? Do you think I'll have some sort of low-level PTSD? Will the hives go away? Maybe it's like riding a bike. Which I haven't done since my early 20's. Well, maybe it's like swimming. Which I haven't done since I was 19. And to be honest, we can't really call that swimming. We can however call it "getting from one end of the pool to the other by myself without putting my feet on the floor of the pool."

I Don't Have a Lisp, But I'd Like One

2011-04-09T09:18:00.000-07:00

A lisp is the kind of thing you can fake for a few minutes. Or each time you do a specific thing, like answering the phone. Although there's not much lisping you can do when saying, "Hello." But maybe you work somewhere and have to answer the phone saying, "Hello, so glad you've called Sam's Swing Shop. I'm ready to assist with all your sex questions as they pertain to swings. How may I best assist you this morning?" But yeah, so I love lisps. Lisps and stutters really, but you're so much more likely to find someone with a lisp than a good stutter these days. I guess lisps are more popular.

Anyway, one of the few things I love more than a good lisp is a trip-and-fall story. Many of you know this, and are so kind as to alert me by e-mail when you've found a trip-and-fall online, which I greatly appreciate.

I happen to have excellent balance generally, but every so often even I trip. Just as I would laugh at someone on the street tripping, I will also laugh at my own trips. On Thursday, I tripped. It was extra stupid of me, and here's why:

For the last two days, I've temped in Union Square, and on my lunch hour this past Thursday, wandered into a small clothing shop wedged between a North Face store and an H&M. When you walk into this store, there are about two meters of space, then one step up, then the clothes the store sells. They put a fluorescent orange tape border around the step, which I noticed and appreciated. I stepped up. I walked around, talked to the owner, and laughed quietly to myself at how pretentious he was. When he told me he makes all the clothes in the back, I asked if he was the designer. He answered that he hates the word designer, and when I asked what word he prefers, he said, "Artist and constructionist." Alrighty then.

So I wandered around the store, and to be frank, my jaw dropped. The clothes were fucking amazing. Outrageously expensive (a t-shirt that I could tell would significantly shrink even in a cold water wash cost over $100), but also outrageously creative. They made my brain explode, and I was strolling from rack to rack with a smile on my face. There was an A-line dress in a dark purple velvet, with a white lace underlay on the sleeves, and a big lacey pouf at the front. I can't say it was pretty or my style, but definitely appreciated the creativity of the design. And it wasn't just a store filled with velvet dresses. Everything was super-creative in wildly different ways. It really made me think, and I meandered towards the front door with my brain racing.

I forgot about that damn step and tripped down it, despite that orange tape. Giggled all the way back to work.

If You Don't Like It, Don't Read It

2011-03-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

To which I say, fuck that. Seriously. People say all the time that if you can't relate, don't understand, or don't like something, you shouldn't read it online. I do not understand this.

Here is just a smattering of the blogs I read:

Pat Stack - we have absolutely nothing in common, and I barely understand over half of what he writes about. I highly doubt he reads my blog.

She Walks - she's a married mother who likes to drink wine. I'm single without kids and don't drink alcohol.

Kingdom Twindom - this woman lives ... in New Mexico? I'm not sure. She's republican and very religious. We believe opposite things, basically. To be completely honest, I can only read her blog in small doses.

Jessie Sholl - again, pretty much nothing in common. She wrote a book, I read her book, now I read her blog. I'd read her food-shopping lists.

Noraebang - he is a guy born in Korea, adopted in America, who lives in a part of Florida where I once got horribly lost and cried. I am always excited when I understand even half of what he's written about, and have spent fascinating hours reading all sorts of articles about adoption. I was neither adopted, nor do I plan to adopt. Um, nor am I Korean.

Shelby Fero - she's a freaking teenager! Tweets about her prom and everything! I just read her because she's a funny kid. <---- understatement.

People say if you don't like it, stop reading. I say if you don't like it, challenge yourself to keep reading. Find a piece of that person you relate to, that you can understand. There's a blogger who posts what she'll cook for dinner each night. Most of her meals don't appeal to me, but there's always at least one that intrigues. Wide Lawns has more than double the formal education I do, but we like some of the same books. Should I have "stopped reading" because of a couple of blog posts about her cat, since I'm a dog person? No!

So I challenge you. I challenge you to read something even though you don't relate to the author at first glance. I challenge you to dig deeper. To expand your mind and learn about someone you don't think you'd have for a friend. Learn something you didn't know before. Learn to think about something in a way you never did before. Push yourself to see something from a different point of view.

Dirty Secret

2011-03-14T21:56:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Florida, I was living in my grandparents' apartment, had no friends, and was bored. So I did what any Jewish girl from New York would do, and went shopping. A lot. I lived near about three different malls, one of which was an outlet mall, so there were plenty of choices. The truth is, I got a lot of shit I didn't need. The truth is, I got so much stuff that I couldn't properly utilize it all. When I moved to my own place, it wasn't just a walk-in closet. It was a closet that could comfortably fit a bed. A closet I could easily do a cartwheel in. Well, if there weren't so many piles of bags and clothes.

At some point, I confessed to my brother how bad it had gotten, and from the opposite end of the East Coast, he gave me one of the best presents I've ever gotten. He hired someone off Craigslist to help me clean out my closet. Now, unfortunately for this poor girl he hired, despite the fact that I honestly explained how bad things were, she agreed to work for a flat fee. I'm not sure how much Golden Boy paid her, but she knew it was a present for me, and you could see all over her face when I showed her my mess, that she was upset she'd agreed to the price. I wound up giving her like $60 or so, calling it a tip. Plus a few bags of clothes. But I'll bet you she never again agreed to be paid something without seeing what she was walking into after that.

Anyway, this girl, I want to say her name was Clarice, but it wasn't, but it was something like that, was great. Golden Boy sure knows how to word a Craigslist ad. And sift through responses. Clarice and I spent three days sorting, tossing, donating, washing, folding, and ironing. At the end of the experience, I promised myself I'd never let it get that bad again. I've kept my promise. That was the closest I've ever come to being a hoarder.

At the time, I didn't know that word - like the word introvert, it would be a word I'd learn after moving to California - but I was well on my way to becoming one. It was something I didn't want to become, and each time I've moved, I've gotten rid of stuff. You know that little high you feel when you find something in a store to buy? I get that high. But I also get a high when I've created space in my home by getting rid of things also. Time to confess: what do you hoard?

I'm not sure how I stumbled across Jessie Sholl's Dirty Secret book. But I did, and I reserved it from the library. I can't watch Hoarders anymore. It skeeves me out to think of the bugs that must be there. Because I have bugs where I live. Not because I hoard, since I don't, but because I just live in a shitty place. It grosses me out so much that I have hives, daily. So I can't watch Hoarders anymore. I wasn't sure I'd be able to read the book.

Shouldn't have worried. Jessie Sholl could write a fucking phone book and I'd read it. She is funny and light and deep and interesting all at the same time, which shouldn't even be possible. She throws out hoarding statistics that you'd think would get really dry, but somehow they don't. She psychoanalyzes her own mother, publicly. I can't even imagine how difficult that must have been.

Jessie Sholl gave so much background about her mother, the hoarder, that as frustrated as you'll be on Jessie's behalf, you also feel sympathy for her, and understand why she does it. There was a slight touch of Eat, Love, Pray about the book that made me wary, but right before Jessie could have slid down the Italian rabbit hole she stopped and went in another direction.

Also, here's a Surprise! Bonus! At the end of the book she has her Acknowledgments section where she thanks people. You know who she thanks? You know Alice Bradley? That slippery lady? Yeah, me either. But they are friends! Like with each other! How cute is it to find out two awesome writers are friends?

So yes.
Dear Jessie Sholl,
Your book was great. Please write a phone book. Tomorrow.
Thank you,
Green Yogurt
P.S. An Ikea instructional manual would be a fine substitute.

Please Weigh in on a Fat Problem

2011-03-06T19:05:00.000-08:00

(And that will conclude the fat jokes for this blog post.)

You are me. You are friends with someone who lives nearby, and is, shall we say, zaftig. She has invited you to parties she's thrown, you've attended twice and had lovely times (when you are not surrounded by jewish people, to all of a sudden get to hang out with one brings out very good feelings, but that's not the only reason you like her). You have not reciprocated because you have not thrown any parties, but if you had, you would have.

Now you've found yourself volunteering for an event, specifically for zaftig ladies. You think she would enjoy it a lot (I almost typed tons, but then re-read my first sentence). You think of inviting her (to partake, not to volunteer).

Then you realize what you'd wind up saying is, "Hey! You're fat! Wanna go to this fattie event I think you'd dig?" You realize that if the roles were reversed, even though clearly everyone can look at you and see your size, to be actually called out on it would mortify you, and you'd promptly move to the mountains of Kentucky where you know noone. Yet on the other hand, you do realize that you are a delicate and overly sensitive flower, while not everyone else is, so perhaps you should not put your neurosis on others.

You are socially savvy. Tell me what to do.

Promise to Smack Me

2011-02-25T11:09:00.000-08:00

It was raining today, a day I am temping, and as I walked to the job I saw someone else holding a hotel umbrella as he scurried down the street in the opposite direction.

I love that hotels will lend out umbrellas. I love that building management of major corporate buildings lend them out too - you just have to lend them your building ID while you have the umbrella.

My friend's boyfriend says umbrellas are for pussies. Every time it rains I think of him, sloshing through the rain with just the hood of his sweatshirt for protection, and decide I'd rather be an umbrella-holding pussy than get that wet. Plus, a friend in Texas sent me an umbrella a few years ago, and it makes me smile every time I use it.

As I saw that guy with the hotel umbrella this morning it reminded me of a couple of months ago when I was temping and it was raining, and I saw something that made me uncomfortable. A white guy, clearly well-off, striding down the sidewalk with nothing in his hands. A black man in a Ritz Carlton uniform, striding alongside the white guy, holding a Ritz Carlton golf umbrella over the white guy's head.

Really? You are so full of yourself that you need a PUH? Aren't you embarrassed? Especially to have someone of a minority race holding it for you? Aren't you embarrassed to be so uncoordinated that you can't walk and hold an umbrella at the same time? Aren't you embarrassed to be forcing someone else to get rained upon so that you stay dry? I understand this may be a service the Ritz offers, and that's nice of them. But if any of you ever find out I have won the lottery, become filthy rich, and started doing this, please smack me.

You know what else I want to know? Where does this sense of entitlement end? Do you have someone cutting your meat for you? Do you uncap your own pens? One minute someone is buttoning your shirt while another person is standing behind you, brushing your hair, and the next minute you're giving the nod to someone who briskly claps their hands two times before yelling, "Wipers!"

The Bitch of it All

2011-02-17T08:56:00.000-08:00

This morning I was on Muni, seated near the front, when I heard a commotion behind me. I never look, because people causing a ruckus want you to look - it adds more fuel to their fire, but I did listen.

Mostly all I heard was angry cursing. The people around me were looking, and I knew the man was coming closer and closer to me. He said something about how he had to get on the train in the back, and I extrapolated that he was angry at the driver. As he pushed past me, he kept cursing and yelling, and all of a sudden it was all clear.

He was hit by Muni in 2008, and it caused damage to his leg. No way of knowing if that damage necessitated amputation or if the train actually ran over his leg, but either way the guy hates Muni and everyone associated with it. Even the people like me, who just use it to get around the city.

The guy went to the very front and continued yelling at the driver, saying he blamed her, and wanted her to die for what she did. I kept watching his hands, thinking of Colin Ferguson. The driver was very cool, calmly telling the man that she personally did not injure him, that she personally, was very sorry he was in a wheelchair. He agreed with her that she was not responsible, but did emphatically tell her that he'd have to hold her responsible since she works for Muni.

At that point the driver had gotten to the stop where the man wanted to get off the train, and he rolled on down the ramp. How sad is that? I really feel for the guy. Of course his screaming and cursing is inappropriate, but if three years ago your leg were amputated, putting you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, wouldn't you be angry at the world too? Plus, it must really burn that he has to continue using the train system, even after it hurt him.*

*We are not debating whether or not the accident was his fault. Even if it was, you don't deserve to have your leg chopped off. You deserve to have the horn blown at you and be given the finger.

High School Revisited

2011-02-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

Just want to preface this entire blog post by saying it can be summed up in two words: Hot Mess.

So thanks to that modern wonder we call Facebook, I am "friends" with a couple of my old teachers as well as some of the kids I went to school with. Speaking of kids, does anyone else get surprised for a second when they see a picture of someone they haven't seen in almost 20 years and all of a sudden that person has boobs? No? Just me? Oh.

Anyway. So a former teacher of mine named Sara and I became Facebook friends, and right away it was weird. I was born in 1976. Sara's profile said she was born in 1972. That would mean that in 1992 when she was my marketing teacher (and also the art and Spanish teacher - it was a very tiny school), while I was 15, she was 19.

I happen to think it's lame to lie about your age to people. It's one thing to lie to get into a club or to get drinks, but another to lie about it regularly to all who (rudely) inquire. If you think you can get away with telling people you're 38 when you're really 46 then you should be PROUD to say you're 46. Then it'll be more impressive that you look so good, rather than people looking at you and thinking you look like a haggard 38.

So while I know that just because someone's a teacher it doesn't mean they're by any stretch a perfect person, something about Sara seems off. Firstly, she seems obsessed with finding this girl Jen who is my age and was a student there when I was. When I initially accepted her friend request, I clicked on Sara's wall and she'd pretty much "friended" every kid in my year that she could find, and had asked ALL of us if we were in touch with Jen.

Of course sometimes teachers and students form bonds or whatever, in fact just yesterday heard about a teacher mentoring a little boy whose parents are going through a divorce, but this set off a warning bell in my head.

The other thing I noticed about Sara is that she spoke out negatively against all police officers. When I looked at other comments she'd made they were all in a negative tone. While Sara was my teacher she was married, and she's been divorced for quite a while. I saw her ask a girl I graduated with, who now lives in Madrid, to hook her up with a Spanish man. I don't feel like I'm adequately describing Sara, but she just seems like an angry person now, which is very different from who she used to be.

Jen was found. Jen and I became Facebook friends. It turns out that right after high school graduation, she lived out here in San Francisco for a while. I am not clear on what she has done with her life since then. If she went to college. How she's been supporting herself. Why she seems to have zero relationship with the little sister I remember her having. Why every status update seems to be an extreme problem involving police, violence, hospitals, courtrooms, restraints.

Jen told me she wants to come out to the Bay Area, she has a cousin in Oakland. She got an offer to intern at a record company in San Diego (which is not in the Bay Area). I was not clear if this was a paid internship or not, but when I asked Jen if she's aiming to be involved in the music business for a career, she explained that she wants to work in prisons.

She made a joke about sleeping on my couch the first time we chatted. I haven't had a couch in over a year. I told her this. It was clear what wasn't being said. She was asking if she could stay with me. I was saying no. My guess is everyone who lives in a major city gets asked to host quite a bit, since hotel rates are higher there than in smaller areas.

Last night Jen called me shortly after 10pm. She's on the East Coast, so that's shortly after 1am her time. Told me she had HPV but is not contagious, in case I want to sleep with her (I hate when people think everyone who lives in SF is there because they're gay. I'm not gay, I just like it here). Told me she's getting a pap smear tomorrow. I said good luck. Told me about a future landlord she gave $1600 to, who was supposed to renovate before she moved in. He hasn't renovated, she hasn't moved in, and he's had her money since the fall. Jen told me she has to get a lawyer; I told her she doesn't need a lawyer for small claims court.

Again last night she talked about coming out here. I (thought I) very clearly said that I do not live in a place where I can host people. Jen reminded me she'd been homeless, said she can sleep on the floor.

It was a two minute conversation. Jen told me she was at her best friend's bar, but they were closing and she had to go. Now, I am very logical and kind of anal and focused. If I call you, it's when I have time to give you all the attention in the world. I call you from a quiet place, so you'll be able to hear me, and won't feel like I'm distracted by whatever you hear going on in the background. I was a little confused as to why Jen was calling me when she couldn't really talk.

I was 17, I was not so great at asserting myself, at setting boundaries. This has changed a lot. Jen would be an idiot to come out here assuming she could stay with me, indefinitely. She's very smart, and understood what I was saying, even though I didn't flat-out say the word no. But she seems to have some steamroller qualities, and I could see her choosing to ignore what she doesn't want to hear.

Hot. Mess.

Boxing Days

2011-02-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

I worked for a lawyer who was an alcoholic (though I didn't know it). That was fun. I also worked for a lawyer who was going through a mid-life crisis. That was ... not fun.

For one thing, he was a prick, so it was almost hard to notice when he got ... well, prickier, if you will. He used to call me Laura and Suzie all the time. Laura was a lawyer. Suzie was another secretary who sat nearby. At first, whoever he called would come running, pen and paper in one hand, other hand empty - ready to catch whatever he threw at us (literally). But when the wrong person showed up he'd become enraged, so we started trying to guess which one he really wanted to see.

"GREEEEEEEN!"

"Suzie, that's probably you - he's meeting with the Wilsons in a half hour and you're working on that, right?"

The nicest thing he ever did was to give me a lovely sweater from the Gap. Which another secretary told me his wife picked out for our Secret Santa gift exchange.

For several months I thought this guy was just a bad lawyer, and I wondered why his partner, also a prick yet undeniably a great lawyer, had agreed to go into business with him. He'd miss court dates, show up late for client meetings, blow filing deadlines, basically self-sabotage. It was difficult for me to watch. More than once, after a scared Hispanic woman who spoke only broken English had been kept waiting in the reception area for over a half hour, I'd grab Laura to do an initial consultation, briefing her as we walked down the hall and around the corner.

We'd lie and tell clients he was held up in court, a mediation was running long, whatever sounded good, while Suzie and I repeatedly called his cell phone and left voicemails. A couple of times when Laura wasn't available I'd beg the third, and only non-prickish partner to step in, but he really hated that. He didn't do matrimonial and family law. He did criminal, and knew he couldn't answer the questions these scared wives had.

A few times, I even had him meet with clients with the conference room door open, and I'd bump the filing clerk from her desk to use her computer, where I could hear everything being said. As the client would ask the third partner questions, he'd encourage her to get them all out at once, and I'd be typing them out, with answers. Then he'd excuse himself to "go pull some printed research" or refill a coffee cup, and I would hand him the printout of what I'd just typed out. He'd read it, memorize it, and stroll back into the conference room prepared to answer all her questions. It was awful, and Laura and I discussed many times over lunches on Broward Boulevard that it was a miracle the partner having the mid-life crisis hadn't yet been reported to the Florida Bar.

Eventually it came out that he had a side business. Once he came clean with the other prickish partner, he felt free to bring that business into the office. What was that business? Boxing! I have no idea how he got into it, but he started representing fighters who did boxing matches. This necessitated many meetings with managers and fighters, and eventually traveling to Vegas for fights (after I'd left the firm).

What this meant for me was that I spent a lot of time tweaking contracts and getting fighters (many who didn't speak English) to sign multi-page documents (written in English) that discussed purses. Once I brought this up to the partner - should I find out how much it would cost to get a couple of our most basic contracts translated, so they could read what they were signing?

The partner smiled at me like I was a cute idiot. "Green, these guys wouldn't read them even if they were in Spanish. Hell, they probably wouldn't understand them even if they were." He went on to explain that boxers are fucking morons, because who else but a moron would get hit in the head repeatedly, for a living?

After a short time, we started doing more work related to boxing. It wasn't contracts though. The partner began handling all legal issues the boxers had. They mostly consisted of the boxers getting angry and beating people up. These could be people in a bar, or their girlfriends or wives, or their children. What I learned was that the managers picked somewhat dumb guys who were quick on their feet and had great motor skills, trained the shit out of them, and kept them psychologically and physically pumped to beat the shit out of anyone at any time.

There were many times I had a hard time restraining myself from dumping burning hot coffee in boxer's laps, mostly when they were in the office to discuss fighting domestic violence or child abuse charges brought against them.

This is why I am not a fan of boxing. It vaguely reminds me of dog fights, but with people.

Fudgesicle Popsicles and You

2011-01-30T09:44:00.000-08:00

The other day my throat started hurting something awful, and I decided that before this turned into a Big Sickness I had better get to the store and stock up on everything I'd need to get through it.

One of the things on my mental list was icepops of some sort. Soup was also on my list, but holy shit there is like a week's worth of sodium in every can of every brand of chicken noodle soup at Safeway, so screw that.

Anyway, when looking at the icepops a few different things were going on:

I was running out of steam and needed to leave close to Now to get home
There was a guy with a huge dolly unloading food which left very little space for people with wagons to get by him
There was a guy there with his daughter and their wagon, and neither of them had any sense of how much space they and their wagon were taking up

These three things caused me to grab the first vaguely acceptable pop from the freezer and just get out of there. Upon arriving home though, I realized the pop I'd brought home was not the pop I thought it'd be. I thought I'd gotten the skinny fudgesicle popsicles. Those are great because they're the perfect size and you don't feel like since you're eating them you should go make a macaroni necklace while sitting at a wooden picnic table at camp. You're just a respectable adult having a popsicle.

Turns out, I'd gotten the camp size fudgesicles by accident. I'm not a huge fan of these. Firstly, I'm not a huge fan of chocolate. I mean, it's okay, but like, chocolate does not make me happy. You know those women who laugh when eating salad by themselves? Those same women are the ones who close their eyes in bliss when they bite into chocolate. I'm not one of those women.

I just want a little popsicle, not one big enough that it could easily utilize two sticks. Two sticks is one stick too many, and quite frankly I am not a huge fan of those wooden sticks to begin with. The splinter factor is just too great. Plus there's the whole melting issue to keep track of, and who wants to keep an eye on melting chocolate when they're not feeling well? You might say to just eat the popsicle over a bowl, but again, who wants to have to clean up a bowl when they're not feeling well?

On Twitter, I made some comment about having bought the wrong size of fudgesicle, and at least three people expressed surprise that there are different sizes at all. So this blog post is meant to share and educate. There are different sizes. The smaller size is better. Though, not having a sore throat at all would be best.

Dejected

2011-01-24T23:24:00.000-08:00

This morning I applied for an awesome job. It's at a firm I've temped at before. The attorneys I worked with loved me; partners even requested me more than once. Normally I just apply for any job I'm qualified for, because I am not one of those people who believes in bliss, or following it. Work is for earning money, not for fulfilling my soul. A pollyanna may say "what if work could be for both?" and to that I answer that for me, it can't be. The things that fascinate me are not fields I can work in.

This job I applied for today though? It would tap into a couple of my strengths. It involves travel, and while I have no interest in strangers feeling me up in airports, legal secretaries never travel for work which is why that would be super exciting.

The reality is though, I won't get this job. Why? Simply because history - specifically the last three years of it - dictates that nobody will hire me. I am never going to get a job again. This month I have only been able to get two interviews.

It's like I am standing on the rooftop of one building, all the jobs are on the rooftop of the building next to mine, but jumping simply hasn't been invented yet. So I can only stand and look, but can't ever get there. I can see everyone else on the other rooftop, scurrying around, passing around important papers, going on trips to other rooftops, buying things other rooftops are selling. But none of that is for. Just for everyone else. I am surrounded by rooftops.

Reason 382 I Am a Terrible Person

2011-01-22T12:13:00.000-08:00

There's been a little mystery going on at my apartment this month, and yesterday I realized a flaw in my logic each time I think about it. A big, racially stereotyped flaw. You see, I live in a very echo-y place. I live at one end of the hallway, and if someone coughs at the other end of the hallway, I can hear it. Between the echo-happy materials used in the construction, my super-sonic hearing, and the lack of insulation here, I know way more than I should. I know it's Wednesday sex time on Wednesday afternoons (changed from Sundays). I know when the Indian girls next door are home alone, because that's when they smoke in their bathroom. I know when the little Mexican girl next door is having a sleepover from hearing all their giggles through the wall (it's pretty cute). And I think I know that three little boys down the hall don't seem to have left this building since the new year.

I'm home most of the time. It costs $2 to get anywhere, so I mostly just walk to close places. I can do a loop of post office, bank, drugstore, library, supermarket and back home in an hour without lines. So when I'm not temping, I'm pretty much home all the time. It'd be hard to fathom that these boys happen to leave only when I do.

It was in the week of the New Year that I realized the sounds of three little boys had been constant for a few days. Figured they'd just moved in. Figured the sounds would die down when school started back up. Sure the baby would still be around, and maybe even the middle kid, but at least the oldest one would be out of the house for a good chunk of time each day. Not so.

No, these three boys do not go to school. They speak a mixture of Spanish and English (not that they speak Spanglish, but that they switch back and forth). There are only studios and one-bedroom apartments in this building, so there are at least four people living in these boys' home, but I think it's five. I've heard a male voice soothing the baby when he's crying late at night, and a female voice screaming at all the boys to knock it off when their playing turns to fighting.

From hearing these boys constantly, I've sussed out that youngest is around two, the middle is around four or five, and the oldest boy - the one who taunts and mimics the others when they cry which makes them cry harder - could be anywhere from about six to nine. Six is a stretch, judging from his style of talk, but it's possible.

Then yesterday I had an epiphany! Maybe the oldest one is home-schooled! That would explain why he's home all day. This is where I become (yet again) a terrible person: I immediately dismissed the idea, thinking "these people don't homeschool!"

Promptly I felt ashamed, and tried to dissect my thought. Why not? What about these people makes them not the type to homeschool? They're poor? Lots of poor people homeschool. They're not white? Basically, yes. I honestly can't think of any people I've seen on tv, met in person, or read about who homeschool but are not white. It appears to me that people who homeschool are white. I'll just go stone myself to death now.

Around Christmastime there were two boys playing ball in the hallway one day when I was leaving. As I locked my door the older boy was crouched on the floor, tying his shoe. When I came home they were still in the hallway and as I walked past the older boy I told him, "Your shoe came untied again." He knelt down to fix his laces as I walked to my door. A half hour later I left my house a second time and the boys were still playing ball. The shoelace of the older one was again dragging on the floor. He saw me and immediately told his brother to hold the ball, and as I locked my door, I saw him struggling with his shoelace.

It became clear to me as I locked my second lock that he did not really know how to tie his shoe. When I asked if he'd like some help, he nodded, and I knelt down. As I tied I explained, asking the boy how old he was once I'd finished. "Nine," he admitted quietly. It was clear he knew he should know this skill. I didn't want to make him feel bad. "You'll get it if you practice," I told him. I wonder if these are two of the boys I am hearing all the time. If so, whoever is homeschooling them may want to add shoe-tying to what they're teaching.

It's not because they're not white. That's not why I think these boys are not homeschooled. I could easily expand my vision of People Who Homeschool to include all races and nationalities. No, more than race, it's attitude. The people I've seen who homeschool are really, really into it. Whether or not they're misguided or unequipped to be doing it, they have a clear sense of what they aim to teach their kids.

That apartment with the three kids? The acoustics are such that I can hear the mother when she's quietly talking to her friend on the phone late at night. Her window may be open, but mine is closed. If mine were open I would know exactly what they talked about (if we were language-compatible, that is). My point is, I can hear really well what's going on there (reason 828 I really need a job), and I do NOT hear any adult talking to this boys in any sort of teaching style. It's just not happening.

So I will remain mystified and intrigued by these three boys who are always home, always playing and fighting. I will hope they are somehow getting an education. Lastly, I hope that nine year old who can't tie his shoes either learns soon, or has parents who will get him velcro sneakers so he doesn't get teased by his friends.

*Does it count as people watching if you can't actually see them?

Maybe I Need a Pair of Lucky Panties

2011-01-12T13:20:00.000-08:00

This morning I had a job interview. I wasn't able to sleep at all last night, which means I'll be crashing within the next five hours or so. Around 8:30 this morning I wanted to go back to sleep, but there wasn't time. The idea of yawning in an interview didn't sound professional, so I thought about buying a hot chocolate on the way there. Envisioning myself balancing my bag, my coat, my portfolio with my resumes in it, all with a hot drink in hand didn't seem like a good idea. Next I considered being a toddler with a tiara and snorting pixie sticks, but realized that sugar highs make my filtering system worse than it already is (and I stick my foot in my mouth a LOT).

In the end, I just took a shower (which woke me up quite a bit) and resolved to swallow any yawns. While I was sitting on my bed futzing with my nails before leaving, I thought of how, in the olden days when I first started working, I'd always get tons of paper cuts at jobs that wound up working out well. It wound up becoming a sign for me, paper cuts equal good things coming. This made me think about how long, how ridiculously long, I've been looking for a job now. Something needs to change. I need a shove in the employed direction.

As I filed my nails, I thought about what people use for luck. Pennies, rabbit's foot, four-leaf clover. Then for some reason I thought of sports, and how if a guy was on a winning streak, there'd be a joke that he wouldn't change his underwear, that they somehow kept the streak going (yes, I see the potential for that joke, and yes, I am specifically not stepping in it). Maybe that's what I'm missing. Maybe I need some lucky panties. I think they should be my Gap ones with the tiny pocket on the left hip. You know, so I can stick a four-leaf clover in there. Just in case the panties aren't enough.

Let's All Sit in a Circle

2011-01-09T20:12:00.000-08:00

I love that rush I get when discovering not only a new author I love, but one who's written tons of stuff. That rushing thrill of New! Reading! Material! Then you curl up inside all that reading, and when you emerge in a daze with the way you think about things changed for life, in the back of your head all that's going through your head is What the hell will I read now? Wow. I guess I just really, really love reading.

I just need to pause to say that my apartment hallway is very echo-y, and I can always hear everyone who walks by, talks, or makes any noise. Right now a very chipper older late is talking to a man with a heavy Spanish accent who is responding to her politely but you can hear in his voice he wants to get away. Anyway, the point is, this woman has the same squeaky voice as my old cousin Clara, who was old for my entire life. She always used to confuse me with my mom, and it really made me twitch when she'd tell me, thinking I was my mom, that she remembers when my mother was alive. My mother *IS* alive, it's *HER* mother who died! Get it right, woman! Of course I could never say that - I'd just listen to her tell me stories about "my" mom and commit them to memory so I could tell my mom later, and she could collect other people's memories about the mother she didn't get enough time with.

Moving on! Back to reading! Good blogs are a great thing to discover because bloggers have archives. Archives mean days of reading material. I'm always flattered when I, my blog, represents that to someone else. People I'd never meet in real life. People who, even if I met, would agree we had nothing in common. Except people will write more than they will say (if their family isn't reading), so you can find those commonalities after all.

Charlene from -lifedramatic- recently found my blog and not only is she reading the archives, but she's commenting on things I'd forgotten about writing. She responded to an old post where I solicited questions with hers, and here's her list, along with my answers.

1. Don't keep me in suspense. Did you ever get a camera? What kind? Where are the pictures?? :)
Yes, I was given a camera. I don't know how to say what kind of camera it is properly, so I've gone meta and taken a picture of it with Photoshop for you. It says it's a Panisonic Lumix, with 5.0 megapixels and um yeah. I really, really want to be one of those people who takes their camera everywhere they go and takes cool pictures of a sewer grate or a businessman fixing his sock that make people stop and think, but I haven't reached that level. Then, before I could keep trying to reach it, my camera used up all its battery juice and buying new batteries for a camera simply is not a priority when you're scraping together money for rent each month, you know? So that's where I'm at with my camera.

A couple of years ago I went to LA, and I did take some awesome pictures if I do say so myself. I crossed a foot bridge in Santa Monica and took a picture of a Coke cup discarded carefully on a step that I really liked (yet can't find now). It doesn't help that I don't understand Flickr - why are the pictures I've taken in Photoshop on Flickr, and how did they get there? Where is my precious Coke cup picture? Where are all the old pictures I took on my camera and (thought I) uploaded to Flickr?

2. You mentioned you were in therapy for a long time. I'm in therapy now. Have been since my first husband started cheating on me, and never left her. I see a lot of things through your posts that I should be doing but haven't been able to yet. For example, doing things to help me not feel depressed. I find that I kind of wallow in the depression, like I'm in a maze and I can't really find my way out. How do you do it?
Wow. Well. Two or three things.
1. I am sorry your first husband cheated on you. It seems more common these days for people to forgive that, and although this may fall into the "you can't know until you're in that situation" I don't think I'd be able to forgive that. I believe in the "if you aren't into me enough to not cheat on me, then just break up with me honestly" religion.
2. Let's be honest here, okay? I'm not always able to snap out of it. Being out of work is very, VERY difficult. A little while before moving out of Florida my messiness reached an overwhelming head, and another person had to come in to help dig me out. I swore to myself it would never get to that point again. It hasn't, but I have been known to send in my unemployment form a week or two late because I lost it in the pile of stuff on my ottoman and haven't had the wherewith all to dig it out. So, I'm not perfect.

At least a decade ago I read an article in Newsday about how people with learning disabilities function better if their outside world is neat and organized. It took me several years to get my life in line with that, and found it was true. My brain is so busy translating what people have said into words and concepts I understand (and then I have to race to listen and process while also listening to their next thought and saving that for translation while responding to the first thing) that it creates more work when things are physically a wreck. So I try to stay neat. When I don't, I have absolutely noticed a correlation between seeing a wreck and my heart sinking and becoming overwhelmed.
3. The way I do it when I'm doing it is, I have a set schedule. So when I'm working, I know what errands I'll run on my lunch hour on which day, and which days I'll go to the library after work. When I wake up I smooth out my blanket to make my bed look neat (tucking in the blanket takes too long). On weekends I buy five breakfasts (or one cardboard tin of Quaker's Instant Oatmeal) so I'll have quick breakfasts each morning I'm at work. I feel no difference (other than hunger) between eating breakfast and not in terms of being productive, but study after study, decade after decade swears eating breakfast is good for you, so I eat a healthy one.

I keep in mind when I'm depressed all the other times I've been depressed (yes, I realize that sounds depressing) and that if I can just force myself to shower and get dressed, then I'll be able to take out the garbage, which will mean I'll be ready to go through mail that's piled up, etc. Things can spin out of control. But they can also spin into the control if you just start the spin. You have to find what will start your spin.

3. What would you do if your neighbor got a pig and you had to hear it grunting and squealing when you were trying to relax? (Seriously, this just happened to me...)
Charlene, this does not sound pleasant ... wait. Is it a baby pig? Because those things are cute! Did you see the movie with that Dawson's Creek kid who played Knox and his friend had a pig named Bacon?

To answer your question, I would ask the city/town if this was legal, and if it was not, because I'm somewhat passive-aggressive I'd consider reporting them. In the meantime though, I might ask the neighbors if they could move their pigpen to the center of their yard so the noise was traveling so well into my space, and I'd look into what kind of white noise I could employ to drown out the pig noise. Wind chimes probably wouldn't cut it, huh?

4. I've always wanted to visit California and SF in general! I love seafood. Do you like any seafood? (I know you said you are a picky eater).
Yes, I love seafood too. Every time I am at Whole Foods I check to see if the scallops are on sale. I'm not sure I've found any stellar seafood restaurants here, but I haven't specifically looked, and don't dine out much these days.

5. Have you ever been to whereever it is you can go to see the seals there? Seals are smelly, but they're cute too.
I think you're talking about Pier 39, where there are sea lions. Yes, I've been there. More than once. Maybe it does for other people, but for me, it never gets old to see the sea lions sunning themselves and pushing each other into the water, and flopping back up to dry off from a swim.

6. What's your favorite thing about SF?
People ask this a lot. I don't have a good answer. This is the first major city I've ever lived in, so I really have nothing to compare it to. I love that the weather makes it easy to spend time outdoors. I love that there's tons of free stuff to do and watch. You can make a full day out of watching the Gay Pride Parade, a full morning out of watching Bay to Breakers take off and then going to the Ferry Building for the farmer's market. You can surround yourself with tourists or escape them by going to the places tourists never know about. You can learn (if you're me) how to become comfortable being the only white person on the bus. Hell, you can learn how to use city buses, something that was foreign and scary to me at first.

This is the place where I learned how to make friends. Where I learned to cut myself a little slack. Where I got to hone the art of agreeing to disagree, of stretching my mind to see other people's viewpoints. I don't know that these things happened because I am in SF, just that they happened while I was here. But when I have entertained thoughts of leaving here and moving elsewhere, I have worried "what if I can't make friends?"

7. I grew up in North Miami, FL. It sounds like when you were in FL you were in the Pompano area. Why did you move there?
You nailed it. I moved to Florida because I wanted to move out of my parent's house. When I looked at apartments on Long Island, they were all depressing illegal basement apartments in the back of people's homes. I distinctly remember looking at one with my dad, and then quietly telling him, "This is the kind of place that's great for committing suicide." My grandpa lived in FL - he had an apartment in an old-people community, and mostly lived at his girlfriend's apartment (in the same community). When I considered the idea of moving to Florida, he allowed me to stay at his place for a few months while I got myself established. I knew of one girl around my age when I moved to Florida, and she was a real estate agent. She showed me four apartment complexes, all places she'd show her sister, and I picked the one with the most natural sunlight. The master closet was big enough for a controlled cartwheel. There was a laundry pantry in the kitchen. There was so much space in that apartment that I had multiple empty cabinets. So that's why I moved to Florida, the specific city within Florida, and the specific apartment complex.

8. Will you please post a comment or two on my blog? :)
Already done!

Bubbles and Bookstores

2011-01-02T08:40:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up to someone else's alarm clock. On a Sunday. It's a repetitive tone, not a radio. It's been going for about 40 minutes so far. I wonder about the person who owns this alarm clock. It didn't go off yesterday, which means they specifically set it for today. What kind of job does this person have that involves being woken up at around 8 am on a Sunday? What was this person doing last night that they don't wake up naturally by around 8 am on Sunday? Whatever it was, it wasn't something they were doing at home, otherwise I would have heard it. All noises are amplified here.

My nerves are getting rubbed raw by this alarm clock. When I used to wake up to my alarm clock radio, I'd leave the radio on while I got dressed, only turning it off on my way out. But I'm a light sleeper and never turned the volume up especially high. Can't help but wonder if this neighbor of mine rushed out without doing all their neighbors the courtesy of turning off their alarm clock, or they are still blissfully asleep.

Since I was awake, I decided to scrub out my little shower stall floor. For about two months my shower had a persistent drip. Eventually the Naked Handyman came to fix the drip, but then I realized the shower stall floor was kind of slippery. Perhaps it was sludge from water dripping consistently for two months? Gross. So this morning I sprayed Scrubbing Bubbles, let it sit, and then used my scrubby brush on the shower stall floor. The Scrubbing Bubbles directions say to just wipe with a wet cloth, but I decided that was for a surface that's routinely cleaned, not for one like mine, that needed a deep cleaning.

At first I just wet my scrub brush in the sink, but realized the suds in the shower weren't going away. So I turned on the water in the shower. It's a really tiny shower stall, so that's how I wound up with the top of my head wet. Despite having opened the bathroom window when I sprayed the Bubbles, my bathroom still reeks of chemicals. Yes, I know there are more natural alternatives, but I don't have those, I have the Bubbles, and will continue to use them until they're used up.

I scrubbed over and over, with water dripping down the top of my head, inhaling the fumes. It's been over 20 minutes since I finished, the bathroom window is still open, and at this point I'm high off the fumes.

There used to be a Borders bookstore about two blocks from my apartment. It was utopia - a free place to go in walking distance , that was air-conditioned, where I could read books all day long? Come on - that's what heaven looks like! It closed a few months ago, and I still think of that Borders wistfully sometimes. Times like now, when I'd really like somewhere to go that's free and out of the rain.

It's now three minutes shy of an hour and the alarm is still going. I feel certain the owner of the alarm must rush out of their apartment without turning it off. How could anyone stand this loud and repetitive noise for an hour straight?

Stand Up

2010-12-30T17:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I took my friend's daughter ice skating in Union Square. There was a long wait, about half an hour, and the kid asked if she could sit up on the wall nearby. I said yes and gave her a boost up. The two boys in front of us then begged to be allowed to sit up on the wall too, and before long, about a dozen kids, from ages two to about 22 were sitting on the wall. In fact, the only nearby kid who wasn't sitting up on that wall was one little girl who looked about eight or nine years old. She was in a wheelchair, and her dad stood next to her while her mom and sister were in line.

All the kids on the wall seemed so happy to be up there - about five feet up - and I felt bad for the girl in the wheelchair. So bad in fact, that I wanted to go over to the dad and ask if we could just toss her up there so she could be part of the other kids. I didn't do it though, because I got all choked up and would be embarrassed to cry in front of a stranger.

Later, when my friend's kid was skating, I found myself sitting on a bench next to the mother of the girl in the wheelchair. She motioned over one of the skate guard people (I don't know what they're called) and asked him if they could bend the rules, and let her get on the ice in shoes so she could hold her handicapped daughter, who would be on skates, upright. There's a rule that you MUST be on skates to step onto the ice. The skate guard said he would check with his boss.

There was a flurry of excitement and action as the parents raced to get the handicapped girl ice skated. The skate guard came back with the verdict. No. Shoes will slide unsafely on the ice, and the person wearing them would fall. Two more skate guards came over. The girl sat calmly in her wheelchair, watching her sister do rotations around the rink. Guess she's used to not being able to join in any reindeer games. All of a sudden there was a second flurry, and two of the skate guards were lifting the handicapped girl out of her wheelchair.

One stood behind her, holding under her arms, his hands clasped in the middle of her chest as he leaned forward to ask what her name was. "Ava," she told him. "Okay Ava, let's go ice skating." And they did. Her skates glided along the ice, her knees a little bent, and legs looking somewhat useless, but she was upright and she and the ice guard whirled around the rink, weaving around the hoards of people.

All of a sudden, over the music, the traffic, the people, we heard a high-pitched screech. "AVA, you're SKATING!" It was the sister, beaming, face to face with her sister. I guess holding a kid upright when leaning over them and balancing on skates is hard, because after every two rotations around the rink the ice guards switched off holding Ava upright. I have no idea what her handicap is, other than being able to see that her legs could not support her body at all. But for a half an hour, all the ice guards made it their mission to get a girl in a wheelchair on an ice rink in San Francisco. One held her up, while one cleared a path and another made sure no other skaters crashed into them.

Every time the ice guards switched off, the mother yanked Ava's sweatshirt down, since it rode up to her chest as she skated. As she yanked, she kept asking Ava if she was tired and wanted to stop. One look at her face and anyone could see Ava would keep saying no, even if she'd been naked, if it meant she could keep skating. It kind of made my day.

Christmas Time Randoms

2010-12-20T18:48:00.000-08:00

1. The place I'm temping at keeps getting all these holiday cards. One has a picture of a red bird on the front, and underneath it says "Red bird" and another has a winter motif and underneath it says "Winter." So when one came in with a green dragon on the front I couldn't resist and took a little post-it, wrote "Green dragon" and put that on the card. Everyone who's noticed has laughed.

2. I had a lovely chat with my friend Nina the other night, and it turned out to be fascinating. She had a different perspective on something that happened in both our childhoods that blew my mind.

3. I've been reading the books The Highly Sensitive Person and The Highly Sensitive Child, by Elaine Aron. More blowing of the mind.

4. In trying to mail a package today, I found a post office near work, in Chinatown. When I got there, a sign was on the door saying they would reopen at 1:45pm. I waited until 1:55 before deciding the guy was not coming back in a timely fashion and practically speed-walked back to work. Decided I would go to the post office near my house on the way home. Walked there in the rain only to find they'd closed. Foiled again! So I'm pretty sure unless I priority overnight via FedEx, my package will not arrive on the East Coast until several days after Christmas, when I mail it tomorrow. Whoops. Hopefully the thought really does count.

5. During the course of each day I distribute files to paralegals and attorneys, and re-file files they're finished with, all via a file cart. The cart has one wonky wheel though, so the cart is always pulling to one side. That wouldn't be so hard to manage if I weren't also trying to keep piles of files from sliding off the cart. The office manager heard me mumble, "Slippery little fuckers" last week and giggled at me.

Today, when I was hauling a cartful of files towards the filing cabinets, as I walked past the Christmas tree the cart pulled to one side as usual, but with the momentum it pulled a bit harder than usual, and knocked into the tree. The tree started to tip. My first thought was how this was going to look to the employees, that they would think "That jew ruined Christmas!" So I lunged to catch the tree before it hit the ground. I caught it in a bear hug and leaned it back towards the center. As I was doing this a partner walked by, stopped, and asked what I was doing. I didn't want to admit to having not been as careful of the tree as I should have, so I said the first thing that came to mind. "I just love Christmas SO MUCH!" The partner smiled and told me it's her favorite holiday as well before walking off. I don't know why my gut instinct was to lie.

6. A woman who works at the temp agency that placed me at this law firm showed up at the firm today. There is no nice way to say this, but she looks horrible. So horrible that I didn't even recognize her until she spoke. I was really shocked and hope everything is okay in her life. Anyway, I know that sometimes when the agency doesn't have anyone they can send on an assignment she sometimes fills in, and I immediately worried that she was there because the firm had complained about me and was going to step in to cover the position. Turned out she was just dropping off a present for the firm. Then this afternoon the office manager asked me to pop into her office and again, I assumed the worst - that I was being fired and the temp agency worker convinced the firm to let me finish out the day.

Turned out I was wrong, mostly. The office manager told me that Wednesday will be the last day that they need me to work. The office is closed Thursday and Friday, and they anticipate business being very slow next week. So despite all the bitching I've done about how difficult the job has been, of course I am sad. Both about the loss of income and the loss of structure to my days.

7. In case you are not aware, it's been raining a lot in California. Like, many days and many inches of rain. People are all in a tizzy about this. Aside from the frizzball my hair becomes in the rain, I don't really mind it. A few years ago, I wandered through the Lands End section of Sears, and bought a lightweight rain jacket. Turns out it keeps me perfectly warm (enough for San Francisco, probably wouldn't keep me warm in the Northeast), and totally dry.

Swallowing

2010-12-15T21:17:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's hard to describe something that's not tangible and that you also don't have concrete proof of.

Sometimes I'm bad at letting things go. Like after my grandpa died and we cleaned out his apartment like less than a week after the funeral, in a few hours. We just took laundry basket after laundry basket of his things out to the dumpster. Really all that was kept was pictures and I think that's it. It was too sudden for me, and there were too many people and everything was moving too fast, and even though my parents had said I should just speak up if there was something I wanted, I couldn't.

Golden Boy was able to say he wanted one specific picture that my grandparents had had on their wall in Queens, and then took with them to put on their wall in Florida. So he got it, and rolled it up and he and my dad went to buy some tubular thing to transport it across the country, and my brother was all set.

Some of the things I wanted, I couldn't figure out how I'd get across the country and couldn't afford to ship. Some of them weren't practical. Mostly though, I just was really upset at throwing out all these useful things. My grandpa had glass jar after glass jar filled with nails and screws for "just in case." My grandma always had a big stash of plastic bags - she even carried one or two in her purse (or maybe that was just when I was around because we'd go to the library and she'd let me check out more books than I could carry). So I couldn't see them having wanted their things to be thrown in the garbage.

But my father just wanted it done. He and my mom seemed to be in this outrageously huge rush to list the condo for sale. I understood that, but not why they couldn't just arrange for Goodwill or the Salvation Army to come by in a day or two to pick up all the kitchen stuff that was in perfectly good condition.

Over the last year or two I brought this up to my father several times. That we did it. That these things could have gone to a family rebuilding their lives for whatever reason. Abuse or homelessness or something. It just seemed like such a waste, and it really bothered me. I kept raising the issue with my father and he'd never quite give me a straight answer, a reason for why it was done the way it was.

In October when my parents were visiting, I raised the subject again. My father started to get angry and I interrupted him before he got going to point out that I keep bringing it up because every time I do, I don't get a straight answer. Words are said in response to my question, but they're not an actual answer. So my father answered.

I still wish those things weren't thrown out. But my father had a reason, and I can accept that, and drop the issue. I like to be able to tell people when they've done something that bothers me.

This temp job is bothering me. Today I hurt myself futzing with the fucking files, so badly that I had to stand there for a few seconds making sure I wasn't going to cry. The girl I work most closely with saw my face, and asked if I was okay. I could feel it all about to come out - how angry I am that the temp agency didn't warn me about the position involving being able to carry heavy files (in big law firms if you have to move heavy files, you can call someone in Office Services to do it for you). How frustrated I am by how bitchy the paralegals are, and unfriendly the attorneys are. How annoying it is that the possibly pregnant office manager wears patchouli daily, the most offensive smell on the planet.

I swallowed it all down, and just let the other girl know I'd hurt my elbow. She enthusiastically told me all about the time a file clip pierced her finger open and she had to get a tetanus shot, as if we were bonding over our work injuries. I swallowed down the big difference - that she has the luxury of health-insurance and worker's comp and short-term disability, whereas if I break my elbow, I'm fucked.

If I had the opportunity to tell the guy at the temp agency I was upset he didn't warn me, I'd feel better. Even though nothing about the situation now would change - I'd still have taken the position. I just like people knowing how I feel, and it really burns me up when they don't care.

Unwelcome Reception for the Receptionist

2010-12-14T20:22:00.000-08:00

This is my second week of temping as a receptionist. The weird thing is though, their phone doesn't really ring that much that they need a full-time receptionist. An entire hour has sometimes passed without the phone ringing at all. So I keep encouraging the administrative assistant to give me projects. Time passes faster when you're busy.

It's a small law firm - only five lawyers, and about half a dozen or so paralegals. They're all very close, which is sweet. They go to the movies together, help each other move, go fetch coffee at the Starbucks around the corner together.

However, what is not sweet is the way they treat me. The paralegals have big offices, and sit two to an office. They have sliding glass doors - like balcony doors. There is a portable phone which I am supposed to take with me when leaving the front desk to do other tasks, like pulling files for the paralegals to work on, and re-filing files they've already worked on.

A lot of these files are REALLY heavy. Often one "file" is actually three fully packed redwelds that are in a bankers box. Now, I know that the fact that the temp agency didn't tell me there'd be tons of heavy lifting is my problem, and that I am always welcome to call the temp agency and tell them I can't do the job anymore because I am feeling things in my back actually pull themselves out of place and I now have at least two pinched nerves that make me scream in pain when I accidentally move in my sleep.

I get all that. But the reality is that I need work. I have no ego issues surrounding taking a job I am over-qualified to do. Technically, I'm under-qualified for this particular job since I can't deal with the fucking files without damaging my body, but I mean in general.

Anyway, I am so paranoid that I am having problems at this temp job because deep down a part of me doesn't want to "just" be a receptionist, that I refuse to bitch about how my back has never been the same since I got sick in 1995 and re-learned to walk.

So the paralegals. They never, ever help with the files. The files that I'm bringing to them. Bringing to them because they need them. To do their jobs. I can be standing next to their desk holding five files in one arm while trying to shove other files on their bookcase over to make room for the new ones, and they just fucking sit there, staring at their computers or talking with each other, completely ignoring me.

They also often have packets of paperwork that need to be copied prior to being mailed out. Today one paralegal came over at 1pm as I was putting my jacket on to go to lunch and said she needed a copy job back by 2pm. It was from a file I gave her yesterday afternoon. Really? When I explained that I was on my way out but could do it immediately upon returning, she was annoyed. Normally people give you about three hours to a half a day to complete copy jobs at this firm. How do they know I'm not in the middle of a project for someone else? How do they know there aren't four copy jobs in front of theirs?

They are annoyed when I open their balcony doors to deliver files. Or to ask if they have files because another paralegal told me to check with them. One attorney literally glares at me Every. Single. Time. I go to her about anything, even when I let her know her husband's on the phone. It got to the point this afternoon that I didn't have it in me to face her wrath and just left files outside her door in a pile with a note on them. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll get in before she does and I can toss them in her office.

This office does immigration law, and I get a lot of phone calls from people for whom English is not a first language. When I lived and worked in Florida this happened too. Except then their primary language was Spanish. Here it's Mandarin or Cantonese. All the Indian people speak English and have very thick accents.

Today one of the projects I was working on involved going through years of e-mails between clients and the lawyers at the firm. It was so interesting. All the clients, literally all of them, were so polite in their written communication. Polite, and very well-mannered, and appreciative of all the work being done to help them get whatever visas they needed or wanted. When I went to Mexico I was very determined to not be The Obnoxious American, and I thought I succeeded. Um yeah. After what I read today, I am guessing I came across more like a ... person who's nice for an American. These clients have shown me a new level, and I am in awe. I have a new goal for if I ever leave the country again. (My mother would say, 'Couldn't you be nice while you're IN the country?' To which I say fuck no!)

Oh! Here's something funny: there is an office manager. Once again, I can't tell if she's pregnant or just fat. I'm pretty sure she's wearing maternity shirts. But I'm just not positive. Today she told me she was running out to the doctor, and I immediately tried to think of something I could say to inspire her to share more information, but came up with nothing in the half-second I had. Turned out it was the dentist. Damn.

Help me focus on the positive about this job. It is work! It won't turn into a permanent job, but for these couple of weeks, it is solid work that pays me more than unemployment does. Excuse me please - I have to go repeat that six times in front of the mirror.

It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas (At the End of Chanukah)

2010-12-07T22:39:00.000-08:00

Several months ago, I was asked to go temp at a law firm I'd been to previously. But they didn't have me working with the same two partners I'd worked with in the past. Instead, they had me working with another legal secretary who was covering half a dozen attorneys (this is a lot). It didn't go well. She had me and two other people helping her with a project - each of us worked on a different aspect of it, and she was the only one who had the full picture of what was going on.

The simple explanation is that some guy was supposed to create a list of contacts, then I was supposed to print out a slew of shit, and send it to each person on the list. This other secretary found that someone who was supposed to get a packet, didn't. She told the office manager, and they wound up essentially firing me. To say I was crushed doesn't even cover it. I was sure the temp agency that sent me there would never send me anywhere else again.

Luckily I was wrong. To me it seemed like a huge, huge deal. But Monday morning I got a frantic call from the same agency saying they'd been trying to reach me since Friday and wanted me to go to an immigration law firm. The guy said he had someone else there, but if I was available, he'd pull that person and send me because he felt I'd be a better fit.

I wish he'd been honest and just flat-out told me it's doing reception work. It's pretty easy to figure out within two seconds of being shown to your (reception) desk, but I'd just appreciate the honesty. It sure explains why it pays $10 an hour less than what I normally get. Ego is not an issue with me - if I were offered a permanent reception position I'd take it in a heartbeat. Sure, I can't make coffee and hate cleaning my own dishes let alone cleaning other people's dishes, but whatever - a job would be divine.

But whatever. The worst thing you can do as a receptionist is to drop phone calls, and make mistakes in transferring people to the wrong attorneys. It's harder than you'd think when five or more lines are ringing at once, someone's standing at your desk talking to you, and two people are having a loud conversation nearby making it hard to hear the person on the phone. So I'm pleased that two days in I haven't dropped any calls, though I do seem to spend a lot of time saying, "I'm sorry, would you mind repeating your name? And you were calling to speak with Carrie? Carly? Oh, you're not sure?"

All the people there are super friendly, which is nice. They thank me every day, as if I'm showing up to help out of the goodness of my heart rather than because they're paying me.

This afternoon they put up a fake Christmas tree right in front of my desk. It was an hour-long procedure, complete with someone tipping over a coffee table when they were standing on it to hang something. One of the attorneys even asked someone to get fake pine spray. Somebody already wears patchouli so I'll be loading up on Advil because holy shit.

Shit You Might Like to Like Too

2010-11-18T21:28:00.000-08:00

I started writing out this whole big story involving going to the bank on Saturdays with my dad, and rolls of pennies from the penny jars my grandparents would give Golden Boy and me. This story was linked to my creativity, but I erased it upon realizing I couldn't find the connection anymore between that and the title of this blog post. I got lost. I changed the title. I watched a Friends rerun, because when is it not funny?

Anyway, hi. I'd like to let you know about some stuff I like.

Maven of Savin' is pretty rad on the store and coupon deals. Very corny name, but all is forgiven when you look at the stuff she comes up with. Also, she updates her site multiple times a day.

On a more local level, I like Jeremy's, even though I can't afford to shop there. But you can! Plus it's still fun to go in and touch all the stuff. If I ever do have money again, I will want to hire a professional clothing shopper to take me shopping there.

All the books by Lisa Lutz are amazing, and I tore through them to keep finding out more about the Spellmans, ignoring the inner voice telling me to slow down so I couldn't cry when they'd all been read. It's fun to read books that have the story take place somewhere you live. I mean, she writes about the Philosopher's Club, and okay, while I can't say I've drank there, I have been at the train stop you'd get off at if you were going to drink there, and that's practically the same thing. Anyway, my point is, Lisa, please hurry up and write more soon. Thank you.

I don't think my parents would tell you they were awesome. They're not braggy in that way. But some people think their parents were awesome, and they sent pictures in to a website to prove it. This website makes me cry. I am dying for more information. It fascinates me to see people with decades of giving other people advice ahead of them. (It horrifies me to have terrible sentence structure.)

Lastly, these bowls are awesome.

So yeah.

Enough With the Freaking Baseball

2010-11-03T15:43:00.000-07:00

This morning I had an 11am appointment across town, and in order to get there needed to cross Market Street (the SF equivalent of Broadway or Comm. Ave.) to pick up my bus. However. This morning there was a parade to celebrate the Giants winning the World Series, and hoards and scores of B&T'ers came to the city. Not to mention half the children took the day off from school here, plus people took a sick day at work.

Unfortunately for me, the parade was starting pretty damn close to that bus stop I needed to get to, and I was fighting my way through a sea of orange. Oh, and on top of that it's also a warm day, and who the hell wants to show up for a meeting all schvitzed out and gross?

Turned out Market Street was blocked, and I couldn't cross the street. I immediately called the person I was meeting with to say I was running late. As the phone rang I figured I could walk to an underground train station, and cross Market Street underneath the street and come up on the other side. But fighting my way through all these people would take a solid half hour. I stood at the edge of a crowd with the phone to my ear. Suggested perhaps it'd be better to meet another day.

At one point I found myself saying, "I'm sorry - a bunch of drunk guys just started screaming and I missed what you said. Could you please repeat that?" and heard laughter. As I walked back home, sweat dripping down my face, everyone else was walking in the opposite direction, and I tried to stay towards the edges of the sidewalk.

There's a whole big list of things to do today, but between the heat and the crowds I just don't have it in me to go back out again.

*In unrelated yet exciting news, I have finally joined the 21st century and can now text! Haven't quite gotten the hang of all the details yet though, which is why my very first text said, "Hey exclamation point".

Sell Your Own House

2010-10-30T07:22:00.000-07:00

There are tons of shows about selling houses. Between A&E, TLC, and of course HGTV, you could watch shows where owners try to sell their homes all day long.

I've watched them a few times, and am amazed at the stupidity involved. Here's the premise, in case you have a job and don't sit at home watching tv:

1. They showcase a house that is on the market, and can't sell
2. "Experts" come in and walk around the house pointing out all the reasons the house isn't selling
3. On some shows, they have prospective buyers come through the house and tape their observations
4. Experts tell the homeowners how they are going to take away the things that make the house un-sellable, and add things that make the house more appealing
5. The prospective buyers come back and again, their observations (now positive) are again taped and shown to the homeowners

There are several reasons why this whole thing is ridiculous. I am going to tell you all you need to know about how to sell your house, so you don't have to watch these shows (you're welcome).

Firstly, Unless you are my friend Beth who is a minimalist, take a minimum of half your shit, and throw it out, give it away, sell it or store it somewhere (other than in your house). You either have too much shit, or the wrong kind of shit. Take down all personalized stuff. That picture of your grandparents on their wedding day in 1948? The one with all the kiddie-cousins sitting on the staircase? The cookie jar on your kitchen counter in the shape of a cat? It all goes away. Any items that show what kind of person you are get taken away. People need to be able to envision themselves in your house. I never see this addressed on the shows, but I think religious items should be taken down unless you are like, in the Bible-belt and having a bible on the coffee table will be a selling point.

Now you are wondering, "With all my stuff gone what should be in its place?" Instead of pictures of you and your friends skiing, put up pictures of nature or flowers. Did you just roll your eyes? I did too. But flowers are neutral and familiar. Pictures of the ocean are calming. My friend with an MFA told me once that pictures should always be in sets of odd numbers, because that's more calming than even numbers.

Secondly, if you have hardwood floors, buff them up and show them off. If carpeting is covering hardwood floors, get rid of it. If you have wallpaper, steam it off and paint. If your paint is faded, re-paint. If you have pets that create a smelly house, make your house un-smelly.

Thirdly, clean the fuck out of everything. If your faucets are from 1985, switch them out for new ones to make your house look updated. If your shower curtain is mildew-y, switch that out for a new one too. By the way, you know that front panel on dishwashers? From watching these shows I learned that the older ones are often magnetic, and you can just pop it off, flip it, and put it back on, making the dishwasher look newer and cleaner.

Now, I am always amazed by how much people focus on furnishings and decorations. People, you are smart, so I know you know that if you move into a house, all that stuff will be gone. Statistics show that staged homes sell for more money. You can't argue with that fact. I happen to love looking at houses and can tell you that no matter what furnishings a house has, I look around ignoring all the furniture so I can envision my own furniture there. Okay, or the furniture I'd like to have.

It really blows me away that prospective buyers will come into a house, look around, and make fun of the flowered wallpaper, or comment on how they don't like the furniture. These things are all going away or can be changed easily! Are they really that simple-minded? Drives me nuts.

Let's talk about the outdoors. It's fall! Just kidding, I meant let's talk about the outdoors in terms of selling a home. Actually, first let me interrupt myself, by talking about safety. I used to live next door to a guy that was retired from the FBI, and he wrote a book about safety (think Gavin de Becker). He gave our family one of his books, and we all read it. I was a kid then, so probably don't remember everything, but here are two things that stand out:

1. Do not tell everyone and their mother that you're going on vacation. Tell as few people as humanly possible! Talk about your vacation after you're back.
2. You do not want big bushes or foliage right next to your front door to your house. You do not want to give "bad guys" a place to hide so that when you are unlocking your door they push in right behind you before chopping off your hands and feet and then setting you on fire (the book didn't say that part, I did). The point is, don't help the bad guys.

So. Keep that second thing in mind when staging the outside of your house for buyers. I'm sure you can find some nice low-to-the-ground shit to put on either side of your door. The experts on these tv shows always say to make sure your house number is easily visible from the street, and to have a nondescript, clean mailbox. If you have outdoor furniture, either make sure it's not rusty or cover up the rusty parts.

Lastly, I was told that when you are showing a house, every single light in each room should be on, to make the house look brighter. This advice comes from real estate agents, and people selling homes who've told me what their real estate agents have said. Now I personally like homes that have tons of natural sunlight. In every apartment I've ever lived in besides my current one, there's been enough natural sunlight (no skylights) that I never need to turn on lamps unless I'm in a bathroom or closet. So if I were buying a house I'd walk around turning OFF all the lights to see how much natural sunlight there is.

And there ya go.

Who Needs Titles?

2010-10-24T16:52:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Florida I never understood why the old people always yammered on about the weather and their various medical ailments. I am older and wiser now, and thus understand the weather thing. They yammer about the weather because it's fun. I don't know exactly what age this becomes fun, but if you are 21 or 23 and thinking that sounds like crazy talk, then you have not yet hit the magical weather age yet. I love bitching about the heatwaves. I love tossing an extra pair of socks in my bag in case the original socks get soaked while I'm walking through a rainstorm in the city.

So. While I hate the heatwaves and hide out in my home or air-conditioned bookstores, a friend of mine loves it. She runs outside and does all kinds of warm weather activities like going to a pool or beach or laying out in a park. But. She always calls me to see how I'm doing on her way home from the beach, to make sure I haven't schvitzed away.

It's been raining all day today. After checking the hourly forecast and seeing it's scheduled to rain all day I headed out to run an errand. Halfway to the store I was soaked. My goal was Kinko's to print out a couple of things I need for tomorrow. By the time I arrived my jeans were heavy from being so wet. I stood in line, and as I looked around, noticed I was the only white person in the store. My hands were wet and slippery from the rain, and as I tried to fully close my umbrella my hand slipped, the umbrella shot out, and hit the black girl in front of me in the ass. HORRIFIED! Luckily she was cool with my, "Oh my god, I'm SO sorry!" and laughed it off.

I walked in and dug in my bag to get out my wallet - you have to put a credit/debit card in to use the Kinko's computers. My wallet was not. in. my. bag.

This was shocking. I am not the type of person who forgets her wallet. I am the type of person who opens her front door to leave the house and pats her jeans packet to make sure she feels her keys there. Who checks and double-checks. Who is cautious.

My heart sank at the thought of wading back home through the rain to get my wallet and come back. I dug through my bag again - maybe I'd just missed it. Nope. Found my checkbook, but no wallet. I asked the guy at the counter if I could pay by check and held my breathe waiting for his answer. No. You can pay by check for a service, but not to use the computer.

I thought for a second. "Is there any way I can use a service to print out two things, rather than using the computer?" The guy told me there wasn't. I thanked him and turned away, prepared to walk home through the rain. "Here," the guy said, holding out what looked like a Kinko's giftcard. I took it, and he told me to use that and then we'd see where things stood.

As quickly as possible I used the computer (they charge 25 cents per minute) and printed out the documents I need for tomorrow. When I handed the card back to the guy, I stood waiting to hear how much I should write a check out for. He nodded at me. "Have a nice day."

I freaking love nice people. So very much. When I got home, I decided to call my friend who loves the heatwaves, since as much as I hate the heat, she hates the rain. Before we hung up, I said if it was still raining tomorrow I'd pick her daughter up from school, so she doesn't have to go out in the rain a second time in one day. She told me to call her anyway after I take the test I have scheduled in the morning (for a job) to let her know how it goes. "Thank you for being my family." It just came out. Having somebody care really counts for a lot.

Funny That Blanca (o) Means White

2010-09-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

I need an up-to-date typing test to submit with my resume for a job. There are these career development centers for people on unemployment, and yesterday I called one, to see if they charge for a typing test. They don't. I asked if I could come in first thing this morning. Blanca, the woman on the phone, told me they'd already filled all the appointments for today, and the rest of this week. I explained that because this is a job with the City that I'm applying for, there's a deadline.

Blanca put me on hold. When she came back she said that if I could get there 15 minutes before they open today at 9am, she would open early for me so I could rush in, take my test, and get out. I agreed and thanked her. It was such a nice thing to do that it made me wish I could bring her a giftcard to a coffee shop or something.

When I started out this morning the heatwave had lifted. The cool air felt great as I waited for the bus. And waited. It was eight minutes behind schedule. Inside my head, I kept urging the bus driver to go faster. At my stop I rushed off the bus and tried to get my bearings and figure out where in the Mission the career place was. Down the block I saw a long line of people waiting outside. Hoping that was it, I walked towards them. It was.

There were security guards all over the place. All the people were standing in line. If I stood at the back of the line I wouldn't even get in until after 9am, let alone 15 minutes earlier. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go up to each person in line and somehow tell them, "I'm not cutting you," even though I was. I walked in and said I had an 8:45 appointment with Blanca.

The woman asked me my name and then told me Blanca wasn't there yet, but I should go wait at the tables for her. The tables were next to a desk with a "Computer Center" sign. I told the guy manning the desk that I was there to see Blanca. He told me she'd be right out. I pulled out my book to read and people-watch. There were tons of people there. I was kind of shocked. I shouldn't have been - everyone knows it's hard to find a job.

I was the only white person in the entire place. An old Chinese lady was in line for something, and a security guard went over and told her to stop singing loudly. A group of girls sat down at a table near me, and pulled out McDonalds and started eating. It smelled both good and gross all at the same time.

Blanca came over and introduced herself to me. She's either in her late 60's or has lived a hard life and is in her early 60's. She was wearing grandma shoes with an ankle-length skirt that had fringes cut up to the knees. Blanca led me over to a computer and set me up to take the typing test. I did the one-minute warmup, and then the computer crapped out. When I told Blanca, she pointed to a man talking to a pregnant girl, and told me he might be able to fix the computer. Not to let him leave. So I sat, alone except for the two of them, and pretended not to listen to their conversation.

I pretended not to listen as the pregnant girl talked about her daughter, and how she didn't like the relative doing childcare. How she was putting in all these hours volunteering someplace, but was frustrated. Frustrated because she came home at the end of the day exhausted, and still had to take care of her daughter and listen to her parents and she isn't even getting paid very much. They sat very close - knees almost touching - and the man did active listening.

Blanca came back, said something to me that I didn't catch, and then walked out of the room. After a couple of seconds, I realized she'd said vamanos, so I grabbed my bag and hurried to catch up. There was a second computer room and she set me up to take my typing test there.

A black lady who worked there walked in and told me it might get loud and she was sorry, but I should just do my best to concentrate. We agreed it was warm in the room, and I said surely it wasn't as bad as yesterday. The McDonald's girls walked in, along with some other girls, and I tuned them out while I did the warmup to the typing test again. In less than sixty seconds I felt myself slide into that zone, where your mind checks out and your body takes over.

As I started the five-minute test, the one that would count, I started listening to the girls behind me as they talked with the black lady. First she criticized them for arriving late. Then she reminded them they were supposed to be dressed for work and while she knew it was very hot, spaghetti-strap tank tops and short shorts were not appropriate. I typed, they talked. She asked one girl if she'd talked to another woman who wasn't there.

The girl said no, not yet. A second girl asked why the first girl was going to talk to that woman. Apparently you can apply to get your police record cleared, to make getting a job easier. Who knew you'd learn such important information during a typing test?

When my five minutes were up, I told the program to print my results, and I started out of the room to go find Blanca. The black lady was surprised. "You leavin' already?" I explained it was just a five-minute test. We said goodbye. As I walked out I heard one of the girls say, "I bet she already has a real good job."

Snippets of Ramblings

2010-09-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

- There's a heatwave going on in the Bay Area these days, and as a result the temperature never dipped below 85 in my apartment last night. Combined with the fact that my fan makes a horrid and loud squeaking sound, I never got into a deep sleep last night, and have been awake since 5am.

- One of my favorite shows, Dancing With the Stars, has recently started their 11th season. Jennifer Grey, most famous for not being put in a corner, is on the show. At first I was really, really excited. Can you imagine how great a dancer you'd be if you'd been informally (yet, kind of formally) trained for three months or so by Patrick Swayze, a professional dancer?

I was so excited. I wanted Jennifer Grey to win. Then last week, DWTS showed her crying. It was understandable - I mean, they had her dancing to a song in the soundtrack of the movie that really put her on the map. The movie that also really put her co-star on the map, the same co-star who died a year ago. So Jennifer kind of had a pass for that one, in my book.

Then this week in rehearsals, they show the clip of her explaining how she had cancer and needed multiple neck surgeries, complete with a closeup of her scars on the back of her neck/spinal column. Because I'm still rooting for Jennifer, I was a little disappointed, but hoped this would be the last of the drama. I think it's really important for an actor to understand that there's a time and a place to roll out the drama.

Jennifer and Derek did their dance, a jive, and it was ... solidly great. But here's what bothered me: they had what? a week? to learn this dance. At least a week. I assure you, that when you are doing a dance performance, you do it many, many times in rehearsals. Even once you've gotten it perfect, you just keep repeating it. Muscle memory counts for a lot. So I was a little confused as to why Jennifer was so out of breath that she had to sit/lay down on the dance floor immediately following that dance. It struck me as a little dramatic. A little too much. While I love her dancing (doesn't she look great for 50?), I am not loving all this drama.

Dear Jenners, Please do not let me find out you are putting on these histrionics for votes, and let your dancing speak for itself. It's good enough, and you don't need anything else but that, to shine through. Kthxbai.

- A year or so ago, I applied for a job working for the City of San Francisco. It's in a completely different field from what I do now, and I was intrigued because it pays pretty much the same salary, and I'm actually qualified. Well, not exactly, because I suppose if I were qualified I'd have the job, but I was qualified to apply. I sailed through the first interview, but then failed the second. Luckily, I was able to review what went wrong, and even more luckily, it just has to do with presentation, rather than substance. The City's rule for that position is that you have to wait six months to reapply. I not-so-patiently waited six months, only to find out they'd stopped accepting applications for the position. Crushed. But! Yesterday I saw they're again taking applications, so I am pulling all my paperwork together to apply once more. I don't get hopeful anymore, but as much as I do, I am.

"I Make a Lot of Money Too"

2010-09-15T10:15:00.001-07:00

Partner is being audited. Oh, that reminds me - Office Manager believes Partner is being audited because someone who used to work for him as a secretary turned him in to the IRS. Let's just stop and think about that for a moment. How much do you have to hate someone to do that to them? What must that woman have felt towards Partner to want to cause that much stress to him? It's also believed she gave a difficult client his own file, which he went through and took out letters where he agreed to pay more, above and beyond the initial retainer for additional work. So she really put effort into screwing this guy over. And over.

Anyway. So after I trained my replacement, Partner kept me on for a week or so to help him work on his audit. This involved reviewing of old credit card and bank statements, and making a lot of charts and tables and calculator-usage on my part. On one hand, the truth is, it's kind of interesting to see how someone with a different lifestyle lives. To see what they're willing to spend money on. Partner has a gardener! He actually wrote out checks to "Gardener Bob" each month. He sent somebody chocolates from Harry & David. Partner went to Japan! It's interesting.

However. It's kind of hard, when you're scraping together enough money to pay rent each month, to see the little things someone is wasting money purchasing. The Chronicle is online. There's no good reason to have a subscription and buy it each day. Partner orders in dinner half the time, and goes out for dinner on the other nights.

Once, on a really hot day, he came strolling into the office drinking a Jamba Juice, and stopped in front of my desk. Looking at my little cup of water, he said to me, "Oh, I should have gotten you one too," and it took every ounce of restraint to avoid responding, "Yes, that would have been nice of you."

After a few days of creating these charts, and looking at Partner's financials, it really started to get me down. See, that's the thing with temping - on one hand, it's nice to once again be involved in society, but on the other hand (you have more fingers), it's tempting to act as the people around you do, and you have to remind yourself that even though you're working among them, you're not actually like them because you don't have a steady paycheck.

On my last day there, Partner and I were in his office, and I was showing him everything I'd done and was about to send to his accountant. At one point, Partner put his head in his hand and complained, "God, this is so complicated!" I, having worked for forensic accountants in the past, probably have a better sense of just how much more complicated it could actually be. So in a mild attempt to cheer Partner up, I told him, "Hey, it could be worse - you could be in the middle of an acrimonious divorce." Partner's response?

"Yeah that's true. I should be glad. No kids, no divorce ... and I make a lot of money, too."

Yes, he really said that. Out loud. That he makes a lot of money. So why the fuck were you only paying me $16 an hour, leaving me to take home about $10.33 an hour? I had to walk away. I was trying so hard to be professional and polite and leave a good impression so I could use Partner as a reference. I didn't want to blow it by outting myself as a jealous bitch. But holy shit you guys. I totally fucking was.

I Didn't Drink the Syrup

2010-09-07T10:05:00.000-07:00

Sure wanted to though. I know that Golden Boy and Crazy Girl have pancake stuff at their house, so I gave the syrup to Golden Boy for them to use.

My last day wound up being this past Friday. I trained the new person who got the job I wanted. Most of you have never needed me to teach you anything, but I am telling you, I'm freaking awesome at teaching. If I know something, I can teach it. So please believe me when I say that if you are trained by me, you will know how to do your job.

Unless of course, you're stupid. And have an attitude problem. Which this new employee does. And is. She hid both pretty well the first day. And the second. On the third day though, I noticed she was very negative to assume the worst about clients. And that she asked me how to do things I'd specifically made a point of teaching her how to do.

All through the following week, I listened as she accused a client of being on drugs, another client of being crazy, and asked Office Manager or myself about things she'd already been told. I watched as she deleted 2,200 unread emails that had been sent to Partner. As she was dismissive to a very nice lawyer who rents space in the office. As she broke the color printer. As she had a document rush-delivered by hand to P.O. Box.

My prediction? She won't last. This is not about me not wanting her to succeed. This is about her not paying attention to the details and thinking things through. My prediction is that it will take a month before Partner realizes this is not a normal learning curve.

Here's Some Syrup, Now Get Out

2010-08-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

The partner is back from his two-week vacation to Montreal. He bought a six-pack of little plastic bottles of syrup and gave one to me, telling me three times, "It's real syrup." Well thank you! I was touched that he thought of the temp while on vacation.

This is probably my last week here. I was told to put the employee contract Office Manager sent out in Partner's pile of mail. Of course I looked through it quickly to see how much they're paying her. A salary that would have been just fine with me. She is going to try to give only one week's notice at her current job (where is it? can I have it?) and start here on Monday. I am trying not to be crushed. Or drink my syrup straight from the bottle, circa 1982 (yes Mom, I confess now).

Wow, how much do you think that would freak these people out? If I just sat here at the reception desk, swigging from the syrup bottle.

Shut. Up.

2010-08-12T10:57:00.000-07:00

For the last four weeks I've been temping in a penthouse office in Union Square. This sounds fancier than it is - there are no good views. Also, despite doing legal secretary work, I sit at a reception desk and also do reception work. It's been many years since I've fetched people coffee. This is awkward, because I don't actually know how to make coffee. Anyway, picture a square. You walk up the stairs to the penthouse at the top left, and my desk is at the top center, and offices are all around me. The lawyer I work for has sub-tenants who rent office space. One is cool (not just because he's gay and has a lisp), and the others are all weird. Oh, and all the offices surrounding my reception desk? They're above me, by two steps. That's right; I sit in a sunken living room.

The lawyer was either so busy or so overwhelmed (not sure which yet) that he had a personal assistant for about half a year. I asked her one day if anyone ever fell down the stairs. Not only am I paranoid about falling myself, but I keep watch any time anyone is on the move, in case they fall. I want to be ready to laugh. Sadly, she said nobody has bit it, but she's tripped over the door frames several times. So now I'm paranoid about that too.

The lawyer has an office manager/paralegal who is a very nice black lady. She gets lots of personal calls - to the point that I've started recognizing some of her callers, and earlier in the week something big was going on - I think she may have broken up with her boyfriend - and a lot of people who seemed deaf were calling. It was fun (for me).

Them: Yeah, Shaniqua Watkins there?
Me: Is this Gwen?
Them: What?

Me: May I tell her who's calling?
Them: IT'S GWEN!

Me: Just a moment please.

There's also an associate who works here. She's tall and thin and WASPy, but with brown hair instead of blond. She was so distant with me, and quiet with perfect posture, that I told Golden Boy I was determined to find a work-appropriate way to hug her, just to make her squirm. If you're just now deciding I'm cruel, to that I say, "Haven't you been paying attention? Keep up!"

The ironic thing is there are people who think I'm very stiff and formal. So you know if I'm thinking someone else is that way they must be totally frozen! I decided to make it my life mission to warm this associate up. I looked up her bio on the firm website. Turns out she worked at the same firm I did, a few years before I got there. This was my IN.

The day before yesterday when I'd come back from lunch her husband and children were leaving. I asked her kids if they had fun seeing where their mom worked and they nodded politely. Associate told me her husband was a fireman so his workplace was much more exciting. So I said something about how we needed to get a playground on our rooftop in order to compete with the firehouse.

Yesterday I told Associate she was the second female attorney I'd met whose husband is a firefighter. How the first one was a partner at a law firm in New York and worked as a judge in night court. I didn't tell her they wound up divorced. We wound up having a nice talk, and I worked in the fact that I'd worked at the same law firm she had.

Now, I'm kind of trying to get a job here, so I didn't want to talk smack about that old law firm. But there is a lot of smack to be talked, because that law firm sucked ass. I ran into the receptionist from there on the street about a year ago, and she told me the firm had fallen apart during our current economic crisis.

By the way, this receptionist gave me very good advice when I first moved to San Francisco: when walking in a city, always make eye contact with drivers before stepping into their paths. It helps drivers be more aware of pedestrians.

Anyway, so now Associate and I are chatting about the founding partners of this sucky firm. One of them was total hell to work for, and now Associate was telling me he wasn't just cruel to secretaries, but associates as well. She mentioned working there when he was going through his divorce.

Me: To Eileen? She died.
Associate: Shut. Up.
Me: Mmm hmm. She died.
Associate: Shut! Up!

I grinned a tiny bit. I found a way to give a work-appropriate hug, albeit a verbal one. The ice had cracked, and now we had bonded. She told me how that partner had had a drinking issue, how she barely lasted a year there, how after she left she had PTSD at her new job, always doubting her writing abilities. We totally bonded and gossiped and had a grand old time chatting about all sorts of random shit for the better part of an hour.

So yeah. Watch out. I'm not afraid to hug you.

Get Off Your Cell Phone

2010-07-31T08:28:00.000-07:00

Last night after work I went to buy dinner, and found myself at the fish counter of a grocery store. Since they were on sale I got bay scallops, and then decided to buy a bit of shrimp. After I'd asked the fish guy for the shrimp, I kind of mumbled to myself, "I forgot to say please..." but he heard me talking and asked what I'd said. So I repeated it, and then restated my request with the please.

He laughed and told me it happens ALL the time (emphasis his, not mine), especially with people who are on their cell phones. After I had all my seafood and had thanked the fish guy for it, I stood there for a minute trying to figure out what else I needed before going to the cash registers. While thinking, I absentmindedly watched the couple next to me ask for their fish. They were younger than I was, but not on their phones. They didn't say please. The fish guy winked at me.

Phoebe Prince

2010-07-22T10:37:00.000-07:00

So this girl in Massachusetts, a 15 year-old ninth grader, hung herself. Supposedly it was because of relentless bullying. I think we can all agree bullying is terrible. Wrong.

But what defines bullying? If you say anything that's mean is that bullying? So if a girl in the lunchroom asks if her outfit looks good and you say, "No, it makes you look like a fat cow," then have you just bullied her? Lots of people use the "but I was just being honest" stance as an excuse for being mean. If you bully someone, does that make you a bully? I really think all these questions need answers.

I bullied a girl in high school. For about a week. She did something trivially unfair to me, it flipped my rage switch, and I went on the attack. A teacher I liked pulled me aside and told me to cut it out and get ahold of myself. I felt ashamed, and stopped. The following year, after I'd graduated, I went back to the school to visit. The girl had changed, gotten tougher, marched right up and confronted me about what I'd done. I told her she was right, apologized to her sincerely, and she nodded, satisfied. Over a decade later she friended me on Facebook, and one night when she told me another classmate of ours had died in a car accident, I brought it up. Apologized again. She said she couldn't remember that happening. I don't know if she was lying or not, but either way she's clearly moved past it.

Honestly? If she'd killed herself over it, I never would have gotten over it. I remember everything - I remember friends' outfits from second grade, how your sister met her husband, everything. Luckily, she didn't kill herself. Luckily in the above instance, because I'd been bullied in the past, when I got called out on my actions felt guilty to know exactly how horribly I'd been making the girl feel.

An investigative reporter named Emily Bazelon has been writing for Slate about the Phoebe Prince suicide. She doesn't think Phoebe Prince was relentlessly bullied. Not by six kids. The district attorney is going after the six kids full force. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to have a history of being (what I think is) needlessly harsh on teenage defendants. If you know me, you know I'm pretty black and white on breaking the law. Unless you were literally saving a life, breaking the law is always wrong. That's how I feel. It's fair to get in trouble when you break the law. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to think you should get in more trouble than I do for breaking it though.

There's no question Phoebe Prince was what you might call "a troubled girl." She'd tried to commit suicide before, she was a cutter, etc. Girl had problems.

Several years ago, when I'd first moved to San Francisco, I was walking somewhere during my lunch hour when a homeless man made a rude comment to me about my body, the skirt I was wearing. Basically, he called me fat. To be honest I haven't worn a skirt since, so I can't say it didn't affect me. At the time, I don't think I told anyone, didn't cry, or do anything. Except never wear a skirt again. Adults are better at letting cruel comments roll off their backs than teenagers are.

As a kid I thought being an adult would be great, because adults were mature. They wouldn't bully or be cruel for the sake of hurting someone. Oh, how very wrong I was. I was shocked and so disappointed to find out that mean kids often just turn into mean adults.

It seems like at Phoebe's high school bullying was a bigger problem than at other schools. Is Phoebe responsible for all her own actions? Is the school responsible since she knew the kids who bullied her through school? People in this country like to blame. People like things to be somebody's fault. I think it's everyone's fault and nobody's fault, all at the same time. Is Phoebe responsible for deciding to kill herself? Not really, since she was mentally unstable. Are the kids who bullied her responsible for Phoebe killing herself? If you believe that if you aren't part of the solution then you're part of the problem, then yes, to some degree they are. Is the school responsible for not doing enough to protect Phoebe? Emily Bazelon seems to think so. So does Elizabeth Scheibel, the district attorney, which is why she went after the six kids so harshly.

The whole thing is a mess, and sad. Very little happened to the kids who bullied me in public school. Despite the fact that I graduated in 1994, it has stayed with me. I am hyper-aware of when I am not wanted somewhere. Nobody ever wanted to be associated with me in any way, and because of that to this day I am still hesitant to call anyone my friend, lest it embarrass them. Yes, I am a sensitive snowflake.

I definitely think bullying needs to be taken seriously in schools. At the same time, kids need to be reminded that high school is all bullshit. That they can and should move on from it, and I think kids should be encouraged to have a lot of things going on outside of school, in places where they are interacting with peers they get along with. Poor Phoebe Prince. And Poor Phoebe Prince's little sister, who not only has to deal with her parent's separation and moving to a different country, but now also has to deal with her big sister having killed herself.

Outta Twenty

2010-07-20T09:45:00.000-07:00

In New York when you're in a store and paying for something, you can say to the cashier "out of five" or "out of twenty" or whatever, and while you're pulling out that five or twenty, they are getting your change. It's a time-saver, and there's nothing New Yorkers like more than that.

It drives me nuts that Californians do not seem to grasp this concept. If I say "out of ten" to them, they just stand there, waiting. So yesterday when the cashier starting pulling together my change as I dug that twenty out of my wallet, I got so excited that I did something completely out of the norm. I turned on the charm and chatted with the cashier. He confirmed that he is from Jersey, and made a joke about how Californians are a distrustful lot and that must be why they won't start making change until they've been handed the actual bill.

I've been the cashier. I know how the pressure feels when you look up and see a long line of people waiting for you. It just seems like good sense to never stop moving when ringing people up.

I would never make it in the South.

How Hard is Double-Checking?

2010-07-07T06:42:00.000-07:00

I read the SFGate every day. Sometimes, if something big is going on, I read it twice a day. Know what else happens every day? I find a mistake. Sometimes it's a typo, but sometimes it's the wrong tense of a word, or a word that doesn't belong at all, or a grammatical error. Some days I even find two mistakes. Every day there is at least one.

I know nothing about the newspaper business. Or the writing business. But don't these people have editors? I took exactly one English class in college. Well, actually I took two. But I failed the first one. In the second one, I got a C. It would have been a B, but I handed in my final research paper late (minutes late, not days late, or even hours late) so my teacher refused to grade it, which knocked my grade down by a letter.

My point is, I'm no rocket scientist when it comes to writing. (Does that even make sense, or did I just make myself sound like Kelly Bensimon?) But if I'm finding one or two mistakes every single day, imagine how many more there must be that I'm missing. If the SFGate would like to hire me to edit, I would be happy to take the job.

Different types of luck

2010-06-21T04:30:00.000-07:00

As a kid, any time I played Monopoly I would go back and forth from Free Parking to Jail, over and over. Extreme highs and extreme lows. We always said if anyone was going to win the lottery in my family, it would be me. Once, as a hanukah present, my brother gave me scratch-offs. I won. Something like $15, that I collected at a gas station.

There are some people who lose their job, spend a couple of months sleeping late, going to the matinee movies, having long lunches, taking vacations, etc., before they get antsy and want to get back to work. So they buy a new interview outfit, send out a slew of resumes, and within three months from when they started their job search in earnest, they are again gainfully employed. Or they temp somewhere, and do such a stellar job that their supervisor finds or creates a position for them. I don't have that kind of luck.

I find pennies in the street. That's my kind of luck. Last week I was talking to Golden Boy about luck, and we realized something. In April of 2009, the thinking was that I would go to Mexico for his wedding, and practically straight from the wedding have to give up and leave San Francisco. Instead, I came home from Mexico, moved in with Wooffers, and less than week after moving had a temp gig. It's now over a year later and I'm still in San Francisco, so maybe I am lucky after all. Guess I just have a different type of luck than what I expected.

I Will Help

2010-06-14T10:44:00.000-07:00

I am in the minority in this apartment building. My guess is less than a quarter of the tenants are white here. The landlord treats most tenants like shit. Not me though, because to an unintelligent person, I come across as whip-smart. It takes effort not to yell when I catch him treating other tenants like shit. He gets away with it because a lot of them don't (or barely) speak English.

One interesting thing I noticed about living here is that the non-white tenants are much more friendly than the white ones. They hold doors open. The other day an old black man using a cane moved past me on the stairs to help me haul a laundry cart up the staircase. I felt so guilty letting someone with a handicap do something physical to help me. They always say hello. With eye-contact and everything. They move out of the way on the stairs. If I drop something they rush to pick it up. Last week when I was going into my apartment a little baby going for a walk in the hallway rushed in behind me.

His mother zoomed up and started apologizing to me. I laughed and said it was okay, and waited for the baby to go to her. She was standing right in front of my doorway, looking strangely hesitant, and for a minute I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized - she wouldn't come in because I hadn't invited her. She really thought she couldn't go after her own child? Obviously I encouraged her in, and we exchanged a flurry of "I'm so sorry's" and "Oh it's okay, he's so cute's" while she got him to walk out.

The other day - the one where the heat was out of control - I went to Trader Joe's. I was shopping for myself and a friend who's out of commission. Walking home from the bus stop, sweat was pouring down me as I carried four heavy bags. My friend's little girl had come with me and she was carrying the two lightest bags. For me, they would be light. For her, they were heavy, and we stopped to rest every third of a block or so.

When we were about three blocks from home, a Vietnamese woman came up to us. "Do you live at 123 Willow?" she asked. Surprised, I said yes. She pointed at the girl and explained that she recognized her and also lived there. Then, she took the bags from her and said to me, "I'm going home; I will help." I was so shocked. I was blown away. Who ever does that?

She carried the two bags all the way up to my front door on the second floor. I almost hugged her.

Help When Needed

2010-06-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

Recently, a girl I know from high school was complaining about being hot on Facebook. It seemed she had a window air conditioner but was too afraid it would fall out the window if she put it in herself, so she needed help.

I knew for a fact that she has a good relationship with her parents and is often at their house (not too far away from where she lives) doing laundry, sleeping over, having dinner, etc. So I asked if she could ask her dad to come by and help. If my dad lived as close to me as her dad lives to her, I'd ask for exactly that type of help. But she said she couldn't ask, as "my parents still live on Long Island, and I'm in Queens." Um, Valley Stream is like, the last town before you HIT Queens. WTF? But okay.

I felt bad for her though. Because my dad would absolutely come over to help. He's the type who, on the very first warm night in early May, would say that the following weekend he would put air-conditioners in. Now, my parents got central air before my brother and I moved out. My point is, my father would help. I felt bad for this girl that she was so scared of accidentally killing someone that she was sweating her ass off in her oven of an apartment. Because, for whatever reason, she couldn't ask her father to help. Yes, maybe her parents don't have a car (although, everyone living on Long Island has a car). Or maybe her dad only has one arm. Or a bad back.

That's just not the impression I got though. I got the impression she simply could not ask that of them - it is not one of the services they provide. Free use of washing machine? Yes. Hauling ass into Queens to lift something heavy? No.

Then, a different friend broke her foot. She needed to go to a hospital. She happened to be staying at her mother's house (also in Queens, and yes, had she not been broken I would have asked her to go help the high school friend put in her A/C because I'm too far away to do it myself). This friend told me the hospital she was planning to go to the next day. I was not pleased, and made a phone call to find names of better hospitals near her.

When I called her back with these hospitals, she got upset. She was at the mercy of her parents, and they were only willing to take her to this one crappy hospital. I was frustrated and upset. I was angry at her parents. Had my parents still been living in New York I would have asked my own father to go into Queens, fetch my friend, and take her to a good hospital. And you know what? He would totally do that. He's just that kind of person. And my mother would take her to the drugstore to fill whatever prescriptions needed filling and also buy her a lollipop.

In my family when people were so sick or injured that they were immoble, they were given a little bell to ring when they needed something. And everyone in the family checked on you. Multiple times. They brought you things to play with throughout the day and night. Sometimes they just came and kept you company. Once, when I was stuck laying on the floor, waiting for an ambulance, my brother gave me his Gameboy to use. The EMS guys arrived to put me on a body board and I was playing Tetris.

I didn't grow up with a tv in my bedroom, but the couple of times I had long illnesses, one was brought in. I have a very clear memory of waking up in the middle of the night, turning on the black and white tv my father had put on my dresser and watching a movie where Gary Coleman was an angel (strange timing, I know). You knew you were seriously sick when the tv was brought in.

We're not particularly mushy about medical problems. There's very little "Oh, you POOR THING! I feel SO BADLY for you!" But there is a shit-ton of practical help, with a big dose of realistic reassurance. So there's no "You'll be FINE, don't worry!" but there is a lot of "We can deal with whatever the new reality is, because we will research the shit out of it and find the best people to help."

When my friend got angry at me for suggesting alternate hospitals she could ask to be taken to, I was hurt, confused, angry and frustrated. In thinking about it, I realized that she felt frustrated too. Because not only did her trip not turn out the way she'd planned it in her head, but because she couldn't take care of herself, and she's fiercely independent.

I don't care that my friend lashed out at me in anger. I'm angry at her parents though. She didn't get dropped off in front of the emergency room doors. She wasn't made comfortable. One of her parents didn't even ask how everything went when she left the hospital.

Of course everyone is different and has different experiences. But sometimes it takes seeing how people deal with things to realize how huge the differences are. Hearing about my these friends experiences with their parents makes me that much more grateful that my parents could be counted on to help. I hope that I am the kind of person others can count on to help.

East Coast - West Coast Rivals

2010-06-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

At 10am this morning I got a call from one of my temp agencies saying they needed someone to do some "legal admin work." To those not in the legal industry, all the non-lawyer jobs probably sound interchangeable, but they're not. A receptionist is not capable of doing a paralegal's job, and a paralegal would be highly insulted to be asked to do a receptionist's job. In New York, there are legal secretaries who work for judges, but there's also a job called "judge's secretary" and those people are required to be lawyers. Confusing, I know.

You can understand now why I asked the agency guy for clarification. I am a rockstar in certain aspects of my job, but most definitely not in others, and I didn't want to set myself up to fail by arriving at a firm and not being able to do what they needed. Somewhat luckily, this particular firm just needed a receptionist (which I haven't done in over a decade, but the real key is not to freak out when ten lines ring at once, and to not drop any calls), so off I went to the Financial District.

I asked the agency guy what the hourly rate would be. He asked what my minimum was that I'll accept. Screw that. So I told him that when his co-worker Tony sends me on jobs my usual pay rate is blah. We'll see what happens - hopefully I'll get more than unemployment pays.

This was an East Coast-based firm. Having now worked on both coasts I can tell you with certainty that West Coast-based firms are better. East Coast firms require more formal dress. No business casual for them, except maybe on Fridays. They're more likely to block websites. Quite frankly, overall the people are less friendly. I will lost all my New York street cred for saying this, but it really doesn't take any extra time to smile and say hello. (All the Southern states just started jumping up and down and waving to me.)

I hand-wrote this blog post while at the job today, around noon. At that point six people had walked by the front desk where I was sitting. One person stood at "my" desk looking over a package that was over-nighted to her and then tried to hand me an empty UPS box to throw away. Another asked if there was a pad of paper at the desk, but didn't greet me or introduce herself. The next three completely ignored me, not even making eye contact. The sixth actually introduced herself.

By the way, I was sitting at the desk of a woman who has been at this firm well over a decade. I can tell, because there is a three-foot lace doily laid across the desk, with various trinkets on it that involve teddy bears and angels. Not to mention the jar (the cover of which has a 3-D farm on it) of obligatory old lady candy.

By the end of the day the most shocking thing to happen was when the guy training me won the award for Least Politically Correct Person In San Francisco. First, he referred to the lawyer who handles immigration law as "the Korean." Then, he told me the receptionist was useless. I was so shocked that I said, "What?!" and he clarified that she has cerebral palsy and her right arm is completely useless. Oh. My.

The thing that struck me as especially weird is that you want to think that someone who would say such things is mean. Like grumpy and cruel all the time or whatever. But this guy was very nice to me (of course I'm white, like he was, and am not handicapped). People are so strange.

Morsels

2010-05-17T21:51:00.000-07:00

1. Recently I spent several days at my sister-in-law and brother's house. As a joke, my brother left me a type of food he found at Trader Joe's that is called the same thing he used to call me when we were younger (okay he sometimes still does). This morning when I thanked him, he was saying that when he saw it, he just had to get it, and it was only $3. As in, who can't afford $3? Well. Hi. There used to be a time in my life when I would spend $3 without blinking to make someone else smile. I look forward to getting back to that time. Our phone call moved on to other things, but in the back of my head I kept hearing, "... it was only $3."

When I went to lunch, it was raining, and as I walked down Market Street, holding the umbrella the security guards lent me, I saw a man crouching on the sidewalk, holding a cardboard sign that said HUNGRY. This morning I'd brought yogurt and crackers to eat for breakfast at work, and realized I hadn't finished all my crackers. I moved to the side and dug through my bag, my fingers searching past my makeup case, book, and tissue pack to find the ziplock baggie of crackers. Hauling it out, I walked over to the homeless guy. "Would you like some crackers?" He looked up at me, squinting through the raindrops, considering the offer. I almost added, "They're from Trader Joe's," in case he was worried about getting some crappy stale saltines or something. Just when I was wondering if I should come up with some way to "sell" the crackers to the guy, he slowly reached out and took them out of my hand. "Thank you." It was only some crackers.

2. To be blunt, I screwed up planning out meals for this last week of temping, which was why I went out to lunch. I was sitting at the Bistro Burger, eating my chicken Cesar salad without dressing, when a cute guy slid into the table next to me. He immediately started playing with his iPhone, and I went back to reading my book. All of a sudden, he stage-whispered, "No dressing!" Was he talking about me? Was he making fun of me? A lot of people seem to think it's weird that I don't like salad dressing. I looked over. He said it louder. "NO dressing!" He was talking to another guy in line, who was ordering for him. I resumed reading. A few minutes later, the No Dressing Guy's food arrives. I look over, and he has ordered the exact same thing I did! His friend began making fun of him for not wanting dressing. No Dressing Guy looked over at me. We realized at the exact same time we were having the exact same lunch, right down to the water. I almost asked him to marry me. Except you know, he was gay. And I'm shy. And he was playing with his iPhone at the table, which I find rude.

Disclaimer: I do not have an iPhone. Maybe if I did it would be so much fun that I'd play with it everywhere?

Funny thing to note: I have played with two people's iPhones. Both of those people were husbands of friends. I wonder if it's a guy/girl thing - guys offer me their cool toys to play with, and then we bond over it. Girls don't.

I Know Someone Who DIED From That

2010-05-05T10:38:00.001-07:00

Many, many moons ago, I worked with a girl who had a tramp stamp in memory of her father who'd died. She also had a teeny, tiny stud in her nose, and her boyfriend had one undesended ball (I'm more mature now, and if you tell me these things about your boyfriend or husband I no longer want to giggle each time I see them, because I immediately try to forget I know the second after you give me this type of information). She also had diabetes. Once, the manager for our department went up to this girl and asked her, right in front of my desk, what she should if she "has a diabetes attack" and so the girl launched into a two minute explanation of some needle that she kept in a certain spot in her desk and where to jab it into her body and how to do it so the insulin would get in. I was on the phone at the time and didn't hear the details, but clearly remember the look of shock on the girl's face when the manager wrinkled her nose and said, "Oh, that's way too complicated, never mind," and walked off.

Recently someone on Twitter raged a few times about people being ignorant when it comes to diabetes. Which made me think, "Umm ... I'm pretty ignorant. Shit, have I said anything offensive about diabetes lately?"

I always sympathize with the ignorant asshole - probably because so often it's me - and this time came up with a way to do something about it. I asked said Twitter-er if she'd like to do a guest post (!) on my blog about her diabetes. And now you will know what not to say when someone tells you they have diabetes. (Thanks to my Twitter Friend for doing this, and apologies for font issues - there was a lot of cutting and pasting going on.)

1. What kind of diabetes do you have? The kind that's kept in check by diet, or do you need insulin shots?

I'm a type I diabetic. It's the kind that they used to call Juvenile diabetes, or insulin-dependent diabetes, but neither of those names are used too frequently anymore. I take insulin, but in my case, instead of taking shots, I have an insulin pump. That's a small computer, about the size of a cell phone, that's attached to me by a teensy little catheter. It holds a reservoir of insulin and the computer gives me a very low dose constantly. When I eat or if my blood glucose is high, I give myself extra insulin. It's a lot more convenient than having to give myself shots. I've also found it's a lot less conspicuous than having to pull out syringes and insulin if I want to have a snack. A syringe tends to draw a lot of attention and curiosity, and that curiosity is often negative.

2. If you have to walk around with needles, how do you get on airplanes with them? Do you carry a doctor's note?

That's exactly what I do, actually. Before I fly, I have my doctor write a letter stating that I am diabetic and must travel with syringes, insulin, my pump, and monitoring equipment on my person. When I go through security, I put everything but my pump and continuous glucose monitoring system in a clear plastic bag so that it's all visible, and I inform the security agent that I'm traveling with medical equipment. Then when I go through the metal detector, I turn my pump off, detach it (which is not at all a big deal), let them X-ray it, then turn it back on and re-attach it. Not a big deal, as it turns out--I thought it would be the first time I flew, but the screeners have seen it all a million times before. Yeah, yeah, lady. Just make sure your laptop is out. What's interesting to me is that I do have to turn off and disconnect my continuous glucose monitoring system, which is a little plastic radio transmitter, when I fly. You know how they tell you to turn off laptops, cell phones, and other devices before the plane takes off? It's just like that.

3. If we know someone with diabetes, should we not offer them sweets?

Oh, wow. That's really a great question. Diabetes treatment has changed so much over the last 20 years, even over the last 10, and most of us can (and do) occasionally indulge without it being a big deal. My first inclination is absolutely to say yes, I do think you should, especially if they're a part of a group and you're offering something sweet to everyone--dessert, for example. Offering doesn't quite have the impact of, say, offering a drink to someone who's in recovery for alcohol abuse or something like that, which is fraught with all kinds of...I don't know. Part of this disease is learning to make good choices for ourselves, and while you might feel a little awkward about offering, we're just fine with saying no thanks if we need to. What's so much worse for us is feeling singled out or excluded for being diabetic. I know a diabetic who was diagnosed at 8. The year after she was diagnosed, at her birthday party, her mother baked a birthday cake, served everyone else but her, and then handed her a bowl of apple slices.

4. What's a good thing to say (other than 'Oh....' or 'Hey, my dad's cousin died of that in the 80's') when someone tells you they have diabetes?

One of the things we struggle with is finding a way to tell people that isn't a total downer or conversation-ender. Most of the time, people notice my insulin pump and ask me about it. People love technology and are curious about things they've never seen before, and I would much rather answer questions about it than hear about how someone's grandmother went blind and had all her toes amputated. Although I'm sorry to hear about that grandmother and her toes, I already got the memo that diabetes is scary. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard people say. My all-time favorite is still, "But you're not that fat!" Oooh, thanks, but I've got the other kind. Anyway, I guess the best answer to your question is probably to ask a question. Ask them if they're type I or II. Ask them when they were diagnosed. Most diabetics would much rather answer a question or two--we're always impressed to hear that someone knows something--than hear about the multitude of awful ways we could die.

5. What should people avoid saying?

Ohhh, the internet. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and I've been told that I can cure diabetes with cinnamon, cayenne pepper, a vegetarian diet, a vegan diet, the power of prayer, and roots from a certain tree that grows in the U.S. Southwest. Let me just say this: there is no cure for diabetes, and people who try to convince you otherwise are, without fail, pursuing an agenda that has nothing to do with you or your health. I would avoid any sentence that starts out "I've heard you can cure diabetes with..." The implication is that we're fools to still be suffering from the condition, because there's a cure. Believe me, there's not a cure. With nearly 25,000,000 Americans now suffering from diabetes, the word would be out by now.

6. What assumptions do people make about you when they find out you have diabetes?

The usual: I must not be very active or energetic. My health must be very fragile. I'm not crazy about the assumption that someone knows all about me just based on the fact that they have a cursory knowledge of the facts of diabetes. Probably the assumption that I like the least is one that, surprisingly, often comes from medical professionals, and that's that I don't know anything about diabetes. My experience is that many doctors who aren't specifically diabetes experts don't know as much as I do. I had a baby last summer, and when I was pregnant, I had an excellent obstetrician who freely admitted he didn't know a great deal about diabetes. He was terrific about asking questions about things like my insulin pump, how often I checked my blood glucose and what range I tried to keep it in, some of the little foibles of the disease. He was eager to work with me, he said, because my health was very good and pregnant diabetics who are in good shape tend to have fewer complications than those who aren't, and even fewer than some non-diabetics, because we are so knowledgeable about how our body works.

7. How old were you when you got it? Do your kids have it? Are your kids more likely to get diabetes because you have it?

I was diagnosed at 25, in the summer of 2001. I got the flu the winter before, and my doctors think that the virus caused my immune system to mistake the cells that produce insulin for invaders, attack, and kill them. I have no family history of diabetes--nobody in my family has it. Neither of my children have it, and they're not any more likely to get it than any other kid with non-diabetic parents. I'm not genetically predisposed to diabetes--it's just one of those crazy fluke things that happen sometimes. My kids are actually at higher risk for type II diabetes--my mother-in-law has it--than type I. Of course, I'm a mom, which makes me crazy and paranoid, so I went through a terrifying couple of days when my son was 2 1/2, when he began demanding a bottle of water to take to bed with him at night, resulting in a sopping wet bed every morning. I had him tested for diabetes, and he tested negative, but still. Scary stuff.

8. Does diabetes get research funding like cancer? Is somebody working on a cure? Is there such a thing as a cure?

Diabetes does get research funding similar to cancer. The American Diabetes Association, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, and the Federal government are among those who are working like mad for a cure. Like with all autoimmune diseases, it's tough to find a strategy to selectively turn off the immune system--to tell it to stop attacking one specific cell. There's a really exciting development in Australia: a nanovaccine that does exactly that in mice. It could potentially lead to a human vaccine against type I diabetes. There's also been some promising research into islet cell transplant, or taking insulin-producing cells from a donor and transplanting them--but in the long term, that hasn't worked very well. Transplant patients have to take huge doses of steroids in order to suppress the immune system, and one of the effects of steroids is that they raise blood glucose levels. So basically, in order to make insulin, they transplant these cells, which ultimately raise the demand for insulin so much that they basically end up exhausting the cells that they've transplanted. But 100 years ago, diabetes was basically a fatal, acute illness--there was no real effective treatment at all. So the bell curve that research is on says that we're close to a cure. That'll be a good day.

9. What do you wish people knew/understood about you and/or diabetes that they (we?) don't?

We don't all look like Wilford Brimley. Diabetics are an exceptionally diverse group of people, many of whom take great care of themselves and are proactive about their health. Despite that diversity, we almost universally hate being told what diabetics are "like." It's like trying to describe what people with curly hair are like--just way too broad a category to accurately form a generalization. Diabetes is serious, but it doesn't have to occupy every corner of your life. I give it the same effort as I do raising my kids or maintaining my relationship with my husband, and I do it as much for them as I do for myself. As much as I'd like to see a cure in my lifetime, my assumption is that there won't be one, and so I try to take as good care of myself today as I did the day I was diagnosed.

10. Since you have a catheter in you all the time, do you worry about people bumping into you? Can you not play contact sports because of it? (Do you have to be careful when you're having sex because of it?)

I don't worry too much about people bumping into me. The catheter, which is the part that's actually under my skin, is a little tiny flexible plastic tube that's about the diameter of a thread and less than half an inch long. It's taped in place right near my hip and most of the time I can't feel it, The bigger problem is the tubing--if I don't have it all tucked under my clothes, I've done things like catch it on door knobs and that kind of thing. I've never accidentally pulled it out that way, but it hurts, mostly because of the tape. I have yanked out the catheter pulling my pants on or off a couple of times, which is also not that much fun. I usually forget to carry an extra infusion set and inserter with me if we're just out for the day, so if I do that, it means we have to turn around and go home.

As far as sports, it tends to be a personal preference, but in general it's fine to wear the pump during. They make holsters and that kind of thing, similar to those armbands people use for their iPods, that go around the arm or the leg, which keep it pretty close. Some people will reduce the amount of insulin they get while they're playing sports or exercising, because the activity can cause blood glucose to drop. On the other hand, you don't want to be off the pump for more than an hour or so, because you'll start to become hyperglycemic unless you're really exercising hard. The pump is water-resistant (one of the very first things I ever did with mine was to accidentally drop it in the toilet) but not waterproof, so I take it off when I swim or shower--it's got a little detach mechanism right at the skin, which leaves this little grommet stuck in my side. And as far as sex goes, usually I take it off. It's not that it freaks my husband out, he's adorable and surprisingly non-squeamish about it. It's just that we tend to get tangled up in the tubing or roll over on the pump. It doesn't hurt the pump, but I've ended up with a pump-shaped bruise on my butt before.

Forward Thinking

2010-05-02T21:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my father told me to always assume the worst. That way I'd be prepared for anything bad that happened, and if something good happened, it'd be a pleasant surprise. It's a protective way of thinking, and it worked for a long time.

People in San Francisco don't think that way though. They believe in thinking positive, karma, putting out positive vibes, all that stuff.

For the last three years - the last year more specifically - my life has been on a downwards spiral. When I first stopped working I hoped. With every resume I sent out, I hoped to get a new job. I don't know when it happened exactly, but I stopped hoping. It happened over a period of time. With each attempt at networking when people would say "Oh, that's hard, good luck" and make it clear they weren't going to do anything that would help me. With each application I filled out at a retail store. With each unanswered e-mail I sent out. Eventually there was just no hope left in me, and I started waiting to become homeless, or for whatever happens to people once their unemployment runs out and they can't pay their rent or get a job.

I haven't temped since January. A week from Monday I will start a two-week temp job at a firm I temped at last year that I really enjoyed a lot. My hope is that Barb is the secretary I will be covering for, that she hasn't already retired. My hope is that she will have such a nice time on her two week holiday that when she comes back she will give notice that she is retiring. My hope is that the partners will love me so much that as soon as they finish attending Barb's going away party they will insist to HR that they call me up and get me to replace her.

Fighting the Food Revolution

2010-04-23T20:28:00.001-07:00

By now everyone has seen, read or heard about Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. Nobody can really argue with eating healthily. But certain people have to argue it. Who? Fast food companies! This food revolution thing is bad news for them. If everyone were to eat healthily, then nobody would ever go to KFC anymore.

So it seems KFC is working around the food revolution. They're running commercials with pink buckets of fried chicken. Apparently for every bucket of fried chicken you buy, KFC will donate fifty cents to the Susan G. Komen fund.

Do they think their clientele is so stupid as to not realize KFC is trying to distract from the fact that their food is unhealthy, or do they just hope that's the case?

A Closed Sign Across Our Hoo-Hoos

2010-03-28T08:52:00.000-07:00

I may not be writing much lately, but I am still reading pretty much everything I can get my hands on.

Most recently I just finished Not My Daughter by Barbara Delinksy, a book about a single mother who is principal at her daughter's high school in New England. Her daughter decides, along with a couple of friends, to get knocked up. Hilarity does not ensue, but a hell of a lot of drama does, and it was a fabulous read. Tons of repercussions you never saw coming. I suggest it to anyone who has been pregnant, a principal, likes knitting, or is a person.

On the blog front, I'm a huge fan of Margaret and Helen. There is nothing funnier than seeing old ladies curse. We always think of old ladies as wearing gloves and brooches and being very proper. Such a fun shock when they break our stereotype. Margaret and Helen are two old ladies who write back and forth to each other via the blog about their opinions on things going on in the world. Just last week Helen cracked me up talking about abortion.

Not a Mommy Blogger

2010-03-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

But I am still giddy that yesterday I got to spend as much time as I wanted at Target. I wandered up and down ALL the aisles. On both floors. Earlier in the day I'd met a friend for lunch in the suburbs. Target was in walking distance, and right next to the train station. So I went.

When I lived in Florida I lived about a block away from a Target. I used to do all my greeting card shopping there. And my candle shopping. And my care packages shopping. And almost all of my drugstore shopping.

One of the few things I don't like about living in San Francisco is that there isn't a Target here. Since moving here, any time I've gone to Target it's been with other people. Don't get me wrong - I greatly appreciate the rides there and love going places with friends. But I'm one of those people who feels like, if you're doing me a favor, I should be as un-inconvenient to you as humanly possible. So I scurry around grabbing the products I need as quickly as I can, so you won't have to wait even one second for me.

So yesterday it felt luxurious to leisurely wander around, looking at product after product. Nobody was waiting for me. Nobody was distracting me. I had nowhere to be later in the day. This wasn't something I thought I missed. On the train home though, I couldn't stop grinning. I was so happy!

Even though I spent less than $30, and bought things like saline and bandaids, it was still a great time.

Just Proving My Point

2010-02-19T10:19:00.000-08:00

A while ago it was my mom's birthday. That night, after I called to wish her a happy birthday, I called Golden Boy to remind him to do the same, figuring he might have forgotten since he's been working crazy hours lately.

He laughed and told me, "In true Golden Boy fashion I already called her this morning."

Of course you did.

Once Again, I'm All Riled Up

2010-02-19T01:40:00.000-08:00

A WalMart commercial opens with a Hispanic woman smiling and talking about how she can get IRS checks, government checks and all other checks cashed at WalMart for only $3 each. Then her husband is shown sitting to her left, agreeing with her about how great it is, and how $3 is less than the $8 charged by other places.

He then magically has a calculator in his hands and shows how over the course of a year going to WalMart can save them $200 a year, which the couple agrees they can spend on other things, like flat-screen tvs or computers, which also magically appear in his hands.

Why am I riled up by this? Surely you can guess. I mean, I suppose there are some people whose finances are so screwed up that they can't even get a regular checking account at a bank right? Okay fine, so WalMart provides a check-cashing service. But it's pretty gross to market this service to minorities.

Also, it grosses me out that WalMart is encouraging people on government assistance to purchase even more non-necessities like flat-screen televisions. If you want to point out that you sell food or sundries or diapers or clothing? Fine. Those are all necessities. Nobody needs a flat-screen.

I'm not disappointed in WalMart for this, because I've had such a low opinion of them for so long. But it's become blatantly obvious that people truly do not understand how things like credit or mortgages work. Or maybe, it's that they don't want to.

If WalMart wanted to do something impressive, start offering a service instead of your sweat-shop-in-China cheap products. What kind of service? I'm so glad you asked! How about a class offered on how to manage finances responsibly? How to avoid buying a house for more money than a person/couple can truly afford?

Dammit Jim, I'm Not a Doctor

2010-02-06T16:54:00.000-08:00

I'm really fucking brilliant. No seriously, I am. I solved the problem in Haiti of all those parent-less kids and all the people who had their homes destroyed. Nobody listens to me of course, which is why the world is not benefiting from my problem-solving solutions. But if someone were to ask me, I'd have answers ready. Just saying.

However. I am not a doctor. I'm not POTUS. Plainly put, I'm nobody important. A little over a decade ago, when the car I had was dying out, at one point I said to my father, "I feel like I either need a new car, or a cell phone for when the entire bottom of my car falls out while I'm going 60 mph on the Northern State or Meadowbrook Parkway."

I got a new car. I didn't get a cell phone until a couple of months after 9/11. When I first got it, I used to keep it off all the time and only turn it on when I had to call someone. Texting is blocked on my phone. If I need to tell someone something, I can call them. Or it can wait. Despite being the MTV generation, I don't actually need instant gratification.

So today when I realized my phone had accidentally been left at home while I was out running errands, it was not a catastrophe. I did not ask to borrow a stranger's phone. I did not rush home. I have seen people freak out upon realizing they left their cell phone at home. This does not compute. Who do these people think they are that they're so important that they must be reachable all the time? It amazes me to see the level of freaking out that people do when they either can't reach someone they know has a cell phone, or when they either don't have their cell phone or have it but it doesn't work for whatever reason.

Once, back when I lived in Florida, I was babysitting for my friend while she and her husband were going into Miami for a wedding. It was the first time they were leaving the baby with a non-family member. I was going to be with the baby for a minimum of seven hours. Less than two hours after my friend left, she'd come back home.

Why? Because she didn't have cell reception at the wedding location. She drove an hour back home because she'd worked herself into a tizzy that something would go wrong and I'd not be able to (handle it or) reach her. She told me this, and I said to her, "You left the wedding invitation here - if I couldn't reach you on your cell phone, I would have just called the wedding place and asked them to get you. You know, as if it were 1991 back when only drug dealers had cell phones the size of bricks." She got a sheepish look on her face and admitted to having panicked.

Yes, there are fewer pay phones these days, I acknowledge that. But really, if you can't go out for a few hours without fully paying attention to the people you're with, rather than all the people you can reach*, then yeah, I think that's a problem. The world will not come to a screeching halt just because you're out of touch for a while.

It's not that I want to go live in an isolated cabin in the woods and only engage with others once a month when I go into town for supplies or anything. Don't get me wrong - I absolutely see both the value and the fun of having a cell phone. My issue is simply with the level of panic I see people have when cell phones are not available to them.

*This does not include actual doctors or people whose job includes being available 24/7.

Groundhog's Day

2010-02-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning thinking about my grandpa. It feels like so much longer than a year since he died, and at the same time, just a couple of weeks since he died. In the past I used to call my grandpa on Groundhog's Day. I didn't know if someone who was widowed would want to be wished a happy anniversary or not, so I wouldn't say it to him. I'd just call and chat with my grandpa, and we wouldn't address the fact that it was out of the norm for me to call on a weekday rather than a weekend.

Growing up I was so much closer to my grandma than my grandpa, but relationships change when you grow from child to adult. Since my grandma died two months after I turned 18, I didn't get the chance to form an adult relationship with her. In a way, I think it was because of her death that my grandpa and I became as close as we did, since she wasn't there to serve as a buffer between us. Please don't think she interfered, because she didn't. It's just that dynamics change depending on which people are involved.

I miss my grandpa. I miss how smooth his hands were. How I could look at his hair and see the same wave in the front of his hair as I have in mine. That my great-grandma, his mother, had in hers. How he always spoke as if he knew. I miss that if I read the Sun Sentinel before calling him, and then mentioned something I knew was going on in Florida, my grandpa was always on top of it - he'd read about it too, and had an opinion. When we'd talk I could visualize exactly where he was sitting. If I called at his house, I knew which chair in the kitchen he was sitting in, with his back to the oven, and all his papers spread out on the table in front of him.

I miss my grandpa.

Useful Bits of Tid

2010-01-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

Penelope Trunk says that bloggers should be useful to their readers each time they post. Well. She blogs to dispense useful and interesting information. I blog to purge my thoughts and feelings before I do and say destructive things. Some people are creative in the kitchen. I can't cook a baked potato, so I am creative when I write, and sometimes when I talk.

But maybe Penelope knows her stuff. Just in case, I will give you three bits of useful information.

Penelope does NOT rhyme with the word cantaloupe (no matter how many times I read it that way).

Court is very, very cold. Bring a sweater.

Read what the Slackmistress had to say about networking. Even if you're not in Hollywood, even if you're not in the entertainment business. Almost all her advice applies to every industry, and it's fabulous advice.

Making the Job Sweeter

2010-01-13T20:35:00.000-08:00

On Monday I started temping at a new law firm. It's a real shock to go from a well-oiled machine, where there's a form for everything and a department that handles every issue that comes up, to one where you are introduced to someone and told he is both the IT guy and the paralegal, introduced to someone else only to find out she is both an associate and the billing coordinator.

When I asked which attorneys I work for, nobody could tell me. When I asked for a list of clients, people gave me blank looks. When I pointed out that there are no name plates outside of people's offices, people shrugged. Four people had to work on getting me a map of the office so I have a way of finding people. It's a very disorganized firm. I've been having a hard time this week. By today at lunch time I had saved three documents to the system and entered one person's time. Since starting there Monday morning. Um yeah - that should have taken me a half hour in a normal place.

Yesterday the HR guy pulled me aside and told me flat-out that the partnership will never pay the recruiter's fee (20% of my yearly salary) so they never hire anyone temp to perm, and he just wanted to let me know up front. But none of the other office staff know this, and they're all talking to me as if I'll be there forevermore. Meanwhile, I have a "I'm just filling in for now" attitude.

This morning I had a meeting with the HR guy and the one permanent secretary and at one point, the secretary got so upset she had to leave the room. It was a bit awkward. I can not get enough information to do any one task through to completion on my own. So I told the secretary maybe it'd work best if we proceed as if I'm her assistant, and she can just send me off to scan documents or research judge's standing orders or whatever.

That did not work for her - she wants me to act like I'm in this mess with her and instead of saying, "What can I do to help you?" she'd rather I say, "Let's figure out together how we can get this done." Okay. So even though I don't know what it IS that needs to be done, I tried to do that. Not just because she asked, but also because she was literally vibrating with frustration during our meeting, and that scared me a little bit.

By the afternoon we'd gotten some objectives laid out and I was able to electronically file one pleading and arrange a service to file another. The HR guy came by on his way home to check on our progress, and gave each of us a fancy chocolate bar for perseverence. I think he spent his own money to get them. I was really touched.

As an aside, you know how people always have little tricks for remembering things about people's names? Like Messy Meredith or Sweaty Scott? Well, one of the attorneys stood right near my desk and talked about his new baby to someone. Later I got told to ask him about a letter for a pro bono case but I wasn't sure of his name, and asked, "The new baby lawyer?" Well, now everyone is calling him New Baby.

IMPORTANT UPDATE: I am not even kidding you - was just handed ANOTHER chocolate bar from the same company! This time it comes from a vendor trying to get us to use their services, but who ever gets fancy chocolate twice in two days?

Culture Shock in a Law Firm

2010-01-11T19:13:00.000-08:00

The very first law office I worked for, back when I was 21, was a sole practitioner's firm. It was me, her, and a law student who was Orthodox and lived in the Bronx. The great thing about working in a small firm is that you get to do everything. I answered phones, drafted letters, and sent out bills - all the regular secretarial things. I also got to do all the other things that needed doing too though - calling clients to bug them to pay their bills, fixing broken copier machines, buying office supplies, babysitting the toddler when my boss brought her in to work, helping her brother create his resume.

Several times I went to court - not to talk to judges of course, except for that one time accidentally - to drop off documents or look for them in the court file. Once I even walked a client out to her car because she was scared of her future ex-husband who was there for a meeting. Another day I went to my bosses' house to babysit for her daughter instead of working, because that was what was most helpful that day.

I went from that job to a big law firm, complete with mail guys and office services and a man named Lloyd whose entire job was to run around the office fixing anything that went wrong - from needing a new chair to not being able to reach a doctor (maybe that wasn't part of his job description, but one day my coworker was having massive diabetes-related pain and couldn't get through to a doctor, so he sat on the phone for hours trying to find one who could help her that day, it was very sweet), to making sure the walkway was clear of snow and ice for clients coming in.

There was a procedure for everything. There was a department for everything. I do best at these firms - the bigger ones that have support, like word processing departments and help desks.

For the last three weeks I was at one of those huge firms. The type that have a computer program for reserving a conference room. The type where there's someone whose job it is to put the used mugs into the dishwashers and make coffee each morning and order lunch for meetings.

As temp jobs often do, that job ended, and today I started a new one. Apparently they had a different temp last week, but they fired her because she wasn't working out. So today they got me. It's a small firm, with about a dozen attorneys who are firmly divided into two distinct camps: half are old, with old-people names like Boris and Bertha, and half are young and hot. There is ONE secretary. Plus me. Yeah.

Now some of you work at law firms and are thinking "Six lawyers per secretary? What's the problem?" But those of you thinking that work in high-stress environments. Ideally the spread is two to four attorneys per secretary, depending on the workload. Some partners are egomaniacs and refuse to share their secretary, and some associates are actually so busy that their secretary barely has time for another person.

Apparently the lead secretary left a week ago. They haven't replaced her yet. This firm is not just small, it's also not organized. They have no systems in place for anything. The other secretary asked me to proof a letter to a client before she sent it out and the formatting was all off. When I asked how they generally format their letters she said there was no template.

Once I temped at a firm where the IT guy was also an associate. When my computer wouldn't let me use a program another secretary went into his office and made him get off the phone with a client to tend to my computer. This firm is not quite that bad, but it's close.

There are some people who would love the position I'm in - they'd love to swoop in and get them all organized and running efficiently. I would love that too, except that the reality is that old people don't change. This firm doesn't even have a document management system. They compost and print double-sided and scan everything rather than making copies, yet when I asked for a client list people got flustered. When I couldn't get into the drive where completed documents are stored the IT guy told me to just close down and try again tomorrow morning.

Last Friday when I left the bigger firm I got three hugs goodbye, one Facebook friend request, one offer to take me out to lunch this week, and two heartfelt emailed goodbyes. The gay HR guy was trying to bring me on board permanently, but got stuck when he tried to get the green light. He came to say goodbye to me Friday afternoon and promised to keep trying. The other women I worked near assured me he doesn't make empty promises, that if he said he'd try, he will. My fingers are crossed.

Of course I will do the best I can at this firm, but I think long-term I'll do better at the bigger one.

Something Interesting Happened On My Lunch Hour Today

2010-01-04T23:12:00.001-08:00

I ran into Cat Lady on the street! You remember her, don't you? Well, we met at the corner and smiled at each other. She'd dyed her hair a new color, and I said, "Wow, you dyed your hair!" and thank goodness that's all that came out of my mouth because my main thought was, "It looks SO MUCH better than that yellow pee color you used to dye it!"

Cat Lady's response? "I did it to match my cats." Ah. I see nothing much has changed in her life.

She tells me the Gay HR Guy isn't there anymore. I don't tell her that I'm Facebook friends with him and know that. Cat Lady says they moved her desk to the other side of the floor, and now she sits right in front of the new HR guy's office, and she hates it, and hates him. That I have no idea how terrible that is. I remind her about how close I used to sit to the Gay HR Guy (the HR guy at the firm I'm temping at now is also gay - is there something about HR that attracts gay guys?). "Didn't you hate it?" Cat Lady asks me.

I shrug as we stand outside Walgreens. It never bothered me, to be honest.

And that's the end of that. Cat Lady was going into Walgreens and I was continuing on down the block, so we parted ways.

Spreading the Power

2009-12-30T22:12:00.000-08:00

So there's this girl Brandy. In Canada. She's funny. She's a teacher. She tweets. She does this awesome Secret Project thing. And she has a boyfriend. A really nice one, from the sound (read?) of it. And, well ... here's the rest, in her words.

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He’s recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He’s the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I’m overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren’t sure what’s happening. He’ll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what’s going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as ‘brandy’s hot awesome dude’). If you don’t pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scrapped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven’t seen it, Google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

9,968 Easy Steps to Temping

2009-12-21T19:34:00.000-08:00

Temping is weird for a plethora of reasons, one of which being nobody gets to know you well enough to know you like to use words learned in your 1993 SAT prep class in everyday conversation. Especially when you're out of work, it's nice to use big words to remind yourself that you know things.

Another reason temping's weird is because random jobs come about in all sorts of ways. Sometimes a law firm wants to review my resume, meet with me, test me, then have me back a second time to meet with the specific attorneys I'd be temping for, and then think about it for a while. It can be a two-week process. Other times I'll get a call at 4:48 p.m. on a Tuesday asking if I can be at a firm at 9 a.m. the next morning. Even worse are the calls that come at 8:56 a.m. asking how soon I can get to the Financial District.

Living this way means it's hard to make plans. All plans have to be prefaced with the reminder that you may ditch your friends last minute if a job comes through. Which always feels terrible to say, no matter how kind and understanding your friends are about it. You feel like a bad person when you start hoping your phone won't ring because you're really looking forward to meeting friends from out of town for breakfast. You feel like a shitty babysitter when you tell your friend you'll watch their kid two days from now, but contact a back-up sitter just in case.

You can't just say no to a temp agency when they call you. If you have a great relationship with an agency maybe you can get away with it once, but if they call and you're unavailable, they'll simply stop calling.

I've given up being able to tell how things are going in an interview. Too many times of thinking it's gone well only to find out the firm went with someone else. Too many times of walking out sure they hated me only to have someone run after me at the elevator bank. I've lost perspective on what the deciding factor is also.

Last Friday I got a call about a temp assignment that is to start tomorrow. I was told the firm would want to test my skill level in a few different areas, then based on test scores meet with me (or not), and then they'd make a decision. Today, after several technical snafus (none of which were my fault), I was told to just go to the interview and they'd test me at the firm.

Normally I don't believe in signs. I always wonder if I should though, and when something might be one. As I stood in the lobby I looked at the Christmas tree that didn't have enough ceiling and wondered if that was a bad sign. When the HR guy came to reception to greet me after less than three minutes, I wondered if that was a good sign. We talked about my experience working at an accounting firm and he had my resume pretty much memorized. Good sign? One awkward silence. Bad?

Now, I'm no fancy pants, so this was less than ideal. Having to sit around in my 10 year old Interview Dress while taking test after test? No thanks. That's exactly what I wound up doing though, sitting in a tiny, windowless office taking four timed tests after meeting with an HR guy in a different tiny, windowless office and agreeing with or laughing politely at, every single thing he said.

I went to do the testing, and the mouse pad was the type that's screwed into the side of the keyboard, where you can't just move it if you happen to be (me) a lefty. There were four tests, and I left certain I bombed two. On the way out I spoke with the HR guy again, and he asked if I got test anxiety. I don't, but sure I did poorly, lied and said yes, hoping that would explain away my low scores.

After walking out, I sat on a bench and first called my contact at the temp agency and then a friend, telling them how it went. I told my friend there was no way they could hire me after that. Arriving home I hung my Interview Dress back up and had barely pulled on my jeans when the temp agency called me. When she said she had good news I initially thought I was going to hear about a different temp gig. It took a few minutes to sink in when she told me the firm wanted me to start tomorrow.

Gotta go iron my First Day at a Temp Job outfit now.

Look at Your Hand

2009-12-18T19:18:00.000-08:00

You would be right to say it doesn't take a rocket scientist to work retail, but there are little things to know. How to properly bag food. How to count back change. How to talk with a customer while still ringing them up. For some people these things are surprisingly difficult. In San Francisco, when giving a customer change it seems to be popular to hand them the dollar bills, then the receipt with the coins on top. As if the receipt is a little tray. I hate this passionately.

Today while shopping an older woman was the cashier, and she very politely called me out when I made a face as she did it. I apologized, and she then apologized back, saying she doesn't know why she does it, but she hates when others do it to her. Then she said, I just figure when they do that to me it's because they don't want to touch my skin.

Oh. My. God. Is this not 2009 in San Francisco? I want to meet the assholes who would make this sweet old black lady think they wouldn't want to touch her skin so I can beat them up. And yet.

Yet I remember how I used to meet my grandpa every Tuesday at Wendy's for him to take me to lunch. That time when I was standing next to him at the counter as he paid the black, teenage cashier. I watched as he held his hand out to give her coins, and dropped them towards her hand. Make whatever excuse you want - believe me, I want to make them - but I am sure he meant to avoid touching her hand.

I am not even sure he realized he was doing it - it may have been instinct for him. This is a man who for decades, worked as a teacher in New York City, with children of all races. But I realized, and my jaw dropped. The cashier noticed, and she looked at me to see if I did also. There were people behind us - it was the lunch rush in a fast food restaurant. The cashier seemed embarrassed, when really it was my grandpa who should have felt that emotion.

I mouthed I'm so sorry to the cashier, and she nodded to me. I refuse to excuse my grandpa's actions, no matter that he's dead, no matter how much I loved him. I spent years working on him - getting him to refer to adult women as women rather than "the girl", and even with all that effort he still sometimes forgot.

Not really sure where I'm going with this. Not sure what makes me feel more sad today - that some random black lady thought people might not want to touch her skin. Or the fact that I know she's right.

Just a Nickel and a Smile

2009-12-14T18:01:00.000-08:00

I never carry change with me. I keep a glass on my windowsill that my mother sent from Red Envelope one year for Hanukah, and any time I wind up with change, as soon as I get home it goes into that glass. When the glass gets full, I roll all the coins and bring them to the bank.

At the top of the Embarcadero BART station, right where Market and Spear Streets intersect, there are often homeless people. It's a good spot for them. The people commuting, the tourists nearby due to the Hyatt, all the people going to the Ferry Building, and all the other people going to the Financial District for work.

There's one black guy who used to stand right in the middle of everything and in a booming voice, say, "Just a nickel and a smile, will last a lonnnnng while. Help the homeless with a nickel!" In general, I never give homeless people money. Leftover food, yes, but money, no. (As an aside, I am reading a book and today read a sentence in it that had seven commas. I was so shocked that I read the sentence three times before mentally editing the commas down to a slightly more reasonable five.)

He always dressed in a way that showed he knew what was going on in the world. During Gay Pride he'll wear rainbows, during the elections he wore an Obama hat, etc. When it would rain he'd have a different saying that I can't think of now, but there was something about hearing his voice every day that made me smile inside.
Not that I was happy he is homeless of course, but there was just something about the guy. I'm not sure what it was.

Today I was downtown running errands. I walked past the entrance to Embacadero BART and heard a homeless guy speaking to someone. He was sitting on the divider between the stairs and escalator. I walked to my nearby bus stop and checked to see how many minutes it would be until my bus came. Then I realized the homeless man's voice had sounded familiar.

I haven't spent much time in this area lately since I'm not working. But I thought it might be that nickel and smile guy. I stood waiting for my bus.

I have change.
It might not be him.
Who am I kidding, it's him?
I can't afford to be giving away money now.
Do I even have change?
It's just thirty cents.
Stop, I really can't afford to open this door.
I'll never miss this money.
I know me - if I start giving him money I'm going to have a hard time not giving everyone all my money.
I have no idea how much is in my change jar. I'll never miss it.
I'm going to miss my bus if I go over.
I will NEVER miss this money.

I walked over and looked at him, all of a sudden feeling a little shy. He looked at me and waited. "Are you the nickel and smile guy?" His face lit up as he said it. "Just a nickel and a smile lasts a lonnnng while. Help the homeless with a nickel!"

I never engage in conversations with homeless people. Not long after I moved to San Francisco, I got attacked by a homeless guy just outside my apartment building. Right before I was about to kick the guy off me I happened to look into his eyes, and he into mine. I realized he wasn't seeing me at the same time he realized I wasn't who he was seeing in his mind, and he let go of me.

Sometimes I say, "No, sorry," as I walk by and they ask me for money. Sometimes I say "Want this?" as I hold out a bag of leftovers. But in general, I don't make conversation.

I told the guy I remembered him from over two years ago, when I used to work nearby. He told me he still says it, but usually during rush hour. I checked my watch. "Two more hours." He pointed behind me. I looked, and saw the clock on the Ferry Building. Down on the street, I saw my bus only a block away. I couldn't figure out what to say to the guy.

"Well, I'm sorry you're still doing this, but it's nice to see you again," I finally settled on, and dropped a nickel and a quarter into his cup. "You too," he told me. "Have a nice day."

I didn't miss my bus. And I won't miss that thirty cents either.

Failed Dinners

2009-12-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

I was reading the Slack Mistress's blog post about last night's dinner, and it reminded me of something from long ago. In the olden days, we Yogurts used to host one of the two Passover seders each spring. My mother would start cooking at least a week before Passover started, freezing cooked dishes in the basement freezer.

Back in my high school years, one night I passed through the kitchen to say good night to my mother before heading to bed. She'd been cooking all day, and would be cooking long into the evening. When I arrived in the kitchen my mother was just about to put two apple-maztah kugels in the oven before going to pee. These kugels are so good that we always had two - one to put on the table for the seder, and one for our immediate family to enjoy throughout Passover.

As my mom went to slide one tin into the oven, she somehow dropped it, and it flipped upside-down before landing all over the floor. We looked at each other in horrified shock. My poor mother burst into tears at the stress of having to clean up a huge mess so late at night while also having to desperately pee.

I decided to postpone bed and told my mom I'd start cleaning up and she should go to the bathroom. When she came back, she thanked me. As my mother handed me more wet paper towels to clean the floor she said to me, "We just won't put a kugel on the table this year."

This was so unlike my mother - to save the remaining one for us, but speaks to how much we all loved that kugel. I still usually make it at least once a year.

Please, join me by sharing your biggest dinner disaster in the comments.

Don't Tease Me, Bro!

2009-12-09T07:39:00.000-08:00

Pretty much everyone I know from the East Coast loves Dunkin Donuts coffee better than any other chain's coffee. I don't drink coffee, but I do love hot chocolate, and have found that the hot chocolate taste test aligns quite nicely with the coffee test. There is not one Dunkin Donuts in California. (By the way, I've found that Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf & Names of Coffee Shops That Are Too Long has hot chocolate most like Dunkin Donuts, so their coffee may also be most similar.)

Anyway. There's been a grassroots effort to bring Dunkin Donuts to California. Ben Affleck even started a Facebook page all about it. It hasn't happened yet, which makes me sad. However. Dunkin Donuts is now selling their packaged coffee in West Coast supermarkets. Of course this does not help me, the hot chocolate drinker, but I'm still supportive of the overall cause.

Lately, because of this supermarket thing I suppose, when watching tv Dunkin Donuts commercials appear. Since I don't drink coffee I forget all about the coffee-in-supermarkets thing, and stupidly get all excited, thinking surely Dunkin Donuts wouldn't advertise here if they weren't here! Then I remember about the coffee-in-supermarkets thing and my heart sinks. I hate being teased. I don't even like to window shop unless I can afford to pop into the store to buy whatever catches my eye.

So Dunkin Donuts, please come to CA. You could start small - set up shop at LAX and SFO to see how it goes (it'll go great, I assure you!) before branching out to shops all around town. It would be great on multiple levels. Fabulous, inexpensive coffee and hot chocolate, but also, we'd always know where to find a cop when we needed one! You'd be providing a community service, when you think about it. Okay then, so I'll look forward to seeing you soon. Glad we had this little talk.