Boxing Days

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.

Way To Drop the Ball, Nebraska

As you may know, Nebraska had this "safe haven" law going on, where parents could drop their kids at a hospital if they couldn't take care of them, and they wouldn't get in trouble. People used this law, and dropped off their kids at hospitals in Nebraska, and you'd think that would be the end of the story. Except it's not.

Because Nebraska screwed up. They meant only for babies to be left at hospitals. Newborns, really. Not kids. Certainly not teenagers.

So Nebraska fixed their mistake today, and closed the loop. Now only newborns up to 30 days old can be legally abandoned at hospitals.

And good luck to those older kids. The ones old enough to know how much they aren't wanted, and can't properly be cared for. Don't worry though Nebraska, if you don't want to deal with those kids, you don't have to. You can wait for them to become screwed up adults and deal with them as grownups who have to use the system. Way to go.

Joseph, The Partner Who Got Fired - Part 3

Part one, part two.

There's something else I want to mention. Joseph's real name is not Joseph, but I chose it for a specific reason - it's a name that can be shortened to another commonly used name. Joseph was always the full Joseph. In fact, if anyone ever called asking for Joe, I knew to take it as a sign they were not close enough to be talking to him.

This is not a hard and fast rule, but in general, more than 50% of the time, it's a bad sign when a guy never EVER wants to be called the shorter version of their name. Not even in the midst of a joke, not even ever. In my experience, these people are control freaks. (Obviously, there are exceptions. It's something I keep in the back of my mind though, when I meet someone who tells me his name is Robert.)

Let's talk about 9/11. Joseph knew I was from New York. On September 11th, when I walked into work Julie, the secretary who sat next to me, told me a plane had crashed into the WTC. The secretary who sat on the other side of me was also from NY, and had a radio on at her desk. I listened in horror for half a minute or so, and then went to another floor where I knew there was a television.

Julie, her boss, and I stood in a conference room while we watched the second plane hit, while we watched both towers crumble. "This is going to start a war," the lawyer mumbled. I ran back to my desk, called my mother, and woke her up to ask if my father was in the city that day. I called my brother, and called a few relatives, both checking on people and letting other relatives know when I knew family members were safe.

While I was doing this, the conference room across from me was being used for an impromptu emergency meeting. In major cities across the country bomb threats were being called in, buildings were being evacuated. By 10:00 a.m., the door to the conference room opened, and lawyers started streaming out. There were rumors all over the place. The building is closing. The building is going on lock down. The firm is closing for the day. The firm is closing at 3pm.

I went over to the secretary from New York and she told me an e-mail was going out shortly. She was from Queens, and I asked about her family. We walked back to my desk together and while Joseph was standing nearby, she asked about mine.

Joseph started giving me a list of files he wanted put in a box, having all of us rush around, packing documents so he'd be able to work at home. At no point did he ever say, "Hey, you're from New York - is YOUR family okay?" Other people were walking by in shock, and people who barely knew me were asking. But not Joseph. He was busy flashing his shit-eating grin about the whole situation. There was a weird disconnect - it almost seemed like he was excited (which yes, I know some people can't deal with extreme stress and all - I used to smile a lot when I was nervous but that was when I was five). This kind of has nothing to do with anything, other than giving you a broader picture of Joseph's personality.

Why I Do Not Support Sarah Palin

It's not because she has five kids. It's not because she went back to work three days after giving birth to a baby with Down's, which I think is wrong. That's right, I do. Not that mothers shouldn't work, but take a moment, won't you? To stop bleeding, to bond with your baby, to immerse yourself in what you waited all those months for (the mountain, fuck do I need an intervention). And yes, some people don't have the time off from work to take for maternity leave. But I am pretty sure Sarah Palin did.

It's not even because she is anti sex-education. Or because her 17 year-old daughter Bristol is pregnant (we'll put aside the question of whether the Down's baby is really hers or if she truly DID have mono, for now).

No, the reason I'm not a fan of Sarah Palin has more to do with the fact that she doesn't believe in sex education even AFTER having proof in her own home, with her own daughter, that her method does not work. I mean, it does, if you want pregnant teenagers...

There Are No Little Birdies

When the Golden Boy and I were kids, we'd try to get away with having not done something by claiming we did not know. Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law, and that was true in the Yogurt household as well. To this day I can still see my father standing over my brother in the kitchen yelling, "No little birdie is going to come and tap you on the shoulder..."

I think our parents wanted us to be assertive. Not with them of course, because that was not allowed. But out in the world. With other people. In other situations.

This evening 9am and I were standing in the kitchen eating blueberries as he told me the following story. He is deferring law school loan payments for a while, and to do that he needed to fill out forms through the financial aid office at his school. While he was waiting for his appointment he flipped through a brochure that's meant for prospective law students.

9am says the brochure boasts that 59% of all students receive scholarships. The minimum scholarship given out was $12k for each year (3) of school. 9am also says that his LSAT score was in the 80th% for his year. He worked as a paid associate the summer he was a 1L, and worked "for the god damn United Nations" the summer he was a 2L. Thus, he believes, he should have gotten some scholarships.

I inquired, "Did you apply for any?" The answer I received?

"Well no. But enough of my professors knew of my accomplishments that they could have recommended me..."

Dude. Are you fucking kidding me?! THERE'S NO LITTLE BIRDIE! I don't dispute that it's impressive to work for the UN. I don't dispute that there are very few 1L's who get associate positions in law firms. However.

Being in the 80th percentile for LSAT grades at a school that's like third or lower tier is really not all that impressive. It's certainly not impressive enough that a scholarship birdie is going to personally come crap money on your shoulder.

In a way, this kind of reminds me of those people who are out of work and say, "Because I believe, God is going to provide." I listen to them and think, "God *DID* provide, you idiot! God provided you with the ability to use your brain, which you're supposed to utilize in order to create a resume. God provided you with the gift of communication, which you're supposed to use to talk to prospective employers. God provided the tools, not the results the tools can provide."

Why did 9am not apply for any scholarships? He has no reason. In that case, I do not think he deserved one. You might say, "Don't be so harsh. Maybe he's the first in his family to go to grad school. Maybe he just didn't know." To which I say, "Maybe, except maybe not. Both his parents have PhDs, and are professors, he has as many doctors in his family as most jewish people do, and he himself already has a masters degree."

When my parents gave their birdie speech, the way they delivered it always made me think everyone else knew already the birdie didn't exist. I guess no little birdie tapped 9am on the shoulder to let him know there are no little birdies.

So, to anyone reading this blog who is about to attend college or grad school: there are many scholarships out there. You must apply for them in order to be considered. The scholarships will not come to you.

American Embarrassment

I like watching the auditions. I like seeing the instant feedback, and it gives me a good idea of whether I'm a decent judge of people's voices.

I used to REALLY want to be on television. I thought everyone on tv was rich and famous. It wasn't until tenth grade, when my biology teacher who used to nap during class told us one day that his wife and daughter were in a tv commercial reviewing a Broadway play. Immediately I perked up, and pushed Andrew's hand off my foot (what? didn't everyone else get foot massages in 10th grade bio?) to ask questions.

Shock does not begin to describe what I felt when the teacher said they got paid something like $75 each and had to sign a waiver. That's it? Really, THAT'S IT?

Julie and Eric on The Real World weren't trillionnaires, then? And that's how I learned. You could totally be on tv and still just be the wife of a high school biology teacher who ate sandwiches out of the garbage (he really did once).

It's because my bubble burst in high school that I'm shocked to see people in their early 20's on American Idol who clearly know they can't sing to save their lives. It's obvious they just wanted to get on tv. Why? How do they think their lives will change?

Will the guy who waxed his chest to be allowed to sing suddenly start dating hot women who previously wouldn't give him the time of day? I doubt it. Will Alexis, who is now going into "actressing" be proud of all the cursing she did when she watches her audition?

I would love to know what these people are really thinking. How do they feel about the way they behaved when the day has ended?

Some of you readers have gone to performing arts schools - would you be offended to have to audition among those people, or just glad you'd look better than them? Would you be frustrated on behalf of Simon and Randy that their time has to be wasted?

I Need To Write This Out

When we first moved to New York, a boy who delivered newspapers had just been kidnapped. I was so young that it didn't seem real somehow. Between my age and not knowing the boy and not seeing how it affected anything in my world, it just ... was a story to know.

When my brother and I were little, we were walking home from school together and we noticed a car driving behind us, very slowly. We both noticed it. My brother said on the count of three, we would run home. He counted and we did. We locked the door behind us, and for once, didn't play our cruel game where whoever gets inside first locks the other one out. (This game somehow involved the phrase 'It's the plumber; I've come to fix the sink' which we found hilarious at the time.

A couple of months after I moved here, in the early morning I was waiting outside my apartment building for Enterprise to come pick me up so I could rent a car for the day. As I sat on the bench outside, a homeless man wandered up. He came over to me and grabbed my shoulder and said something. I was sitting in a corner, and had no place I could go but through him.

I shrank back and looked into his eyes. He wasn't seeing me. I could see that. Something passed over him and he realized I wasn't whoever he was seeing inside his crazy mind, and he let go of me. It all happened very fast, in less time than it took you to read about it.

The Enterprise people came, I rented my car, picked up my friends, and got on with my day. I put it behind me, thinking "Hey, this is a city - shit like this can happen."

All in all I've had good experiences living in San Francisco. There are more homeless people here than I saw in Boston, and the homeless here are more aggressive than the homeless in Manhattan, but they're not really aggressive. I feel safe here. Not safe in that "It's so safe here, I don't need to lock my doors" kind of way, but in a "I can deal with the unsafe aspects of living in a city just fine."

Today my friend and her daughter were leaving my place. We sat on the steps outside as the darkness surrounded us during dinner time, talking about nothing. Eventually we hugged goodbye, and they began the three block walk home. My phone was ringing as I unlocked my front door - it was my friend. I stopped as I answered the phone, figuring my friend's daughter would need me to run back down to the street - for another hug goodbye or I forgot to give her something I'd been holding for her.

But no. My friend was calling to tell me that a man had grabbed her daughter. While she was holding her hand. She was fine. I shrugged out of my coat as we talked about what to do, what exactly had happened. She didn't want to call 911, because it wasn't an emergency. I suggested calling the local police station, since she'd seen him. Since surely the police have some protocol for dealing with potential abductors.

She did call, and they do have a system in place. My friend was encouraged to go to the police station in person when she can. What kind of kidnapper would be so brazen as to try to grab a kid holding their mother's hand? I've never heard of that happening - which made me wonder if the guy wasn't seeing reality. Where could his head have been to think of taking a child that so clearly belonged to someone?

Doesn't make it acceptable. Just a little more understandable. This is so big, it's hard for me to wrap my head around. I can't imagine how hard it must be for my friend. And yet, how easy since luckily her daughter's hand never left hers until they got home safely tonight.

A Dick Move

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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