Old

1.  Yesterday it was already dark as I was walking home at the end of the day. At one point, I passed a man holding on to a concrete half-wall, who was walking … weirdly. Carefully. I have a background in problems with walking so watched him for a few seconds. It wasn't a limp, it wasn't quite … anything else. I sighed. "Hey. Hey!" I walked back since at this point he'd already passed me. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" 

He turned to face me, and that let me see he was an older man. He smiled. "I'm fine; I'm just old. Thank you, dear." I smiled back. "Okay, have a good night." A friend once told me that she likes to make homeless people feel like people, by acknowledging them. This guy may have been walking alone, but hopefully he felt good knowing he was noticed. 

2.  An out-of-town company is borrowing our conference room. There are several guys* representing this company, and they have back-to-back meetings with other companies for a few days straight. I know one guy – the one who made the reservation. This morning when he arrived he stood in front of my desk, doing that smile men do when they're trying to control their anger. I bit. "What's going on?" He unloaded, and told me how furious he was at his team, how he got sent to a meeting nobody else showed up for, only to find out it'd been cancelled and nobody had updated the Outlook invite to reflect that. Then he sighed, "Time to ream out the troops," before heading into the conference room. 

This evening we were chatting and he mentioned something about the boss being in the conference room right at that moment. "I thought you were the boss," I confessed. He corrected me with a grin. "I'm just the oldest." 

*  Everyone in the company that's renting our conference room is male and white. Every single person representing each company that's come to meet with that first company? Also male and white. I wonder if it's the industry (although what industry besides the KKK only accepts white males?), or the level of positions within each company (although that would be sad too).  They're all very nice. Perfectly gentlemanly and all. Just ... male. And white. 

New Year's Eve

1. A woman sitting across from me on the train headed downtown. She is wearing a black dress, beaded at the bottom, and is futzing with some loose threads. I watch as she carefully makes knot after knot, wondering why she doesn't just rip them loose. Does she know something I don't? I think to myself, "Pantelones would know about this." After a few more knots the girl does rip off the remaining threads. As the train slows to a stop she stands, and is holding a party purse. Small, black, beaded. Entwined in her fingers is a lace mask. I am intrigued and want to ask where she's going, if she is meeting somebody or has to walk in alone. I almost wish her a good time and a happy new year, and then don't. 
   
2. I am crossing the street, and there is a man crossing in the opposite direction. He is black, and pushing a big wheel ridden by a little girl whose legs are too short for the pedals. I immediately think of Oscar Grant. He has a shit-eating grin on his face as he pushes the girl, and she screams in glee. It's beautiful, and I want to tell him, "Go straight home. Don't go out tonight. Go home and lock the door."
   
   It's wrong, of course.  He should be able to put his daughter to bed and then go out to celebrate the New Year if he wants, secure in the fact that the only reason police are out is to answer people's questions when they're lost or want to know how late BART will run. It's wrong - it should be on the police to not shoot people, rather than on people to avoid getting shot by police. The whole thing leaves me sad.
   
3. The last errand of the day is picking up soup for my sick self. I'm not the only one waiting - an old man is waiting with a toddler. He tells her and me at the same time, "My name is Zoe and I'm two." The girl very softly repeats him, so I crouch down and softly say, "Hi Zoe. My name is Green and I'm 37." The guy looks old enough to be her grandfather, but tells me not to get too close to his daughter and that the whole family is sick. Zoe tells me she puked, so we talk about puke for a few minutes while her father goes to check on his order. He comes back with a bag of food and tries to prompt his daughter to say happy new year to me as he puts on her jacket, but she won't. "I hope you and your family feel better." He smiles and thanks me. As they walk out holding hands, the girl turns back and mouths Happy New Year to me.

Grace and Dignity

There is a phrase called "hate read" and I totally do it. There are blogs written by people with whom I vehemently disagree. I read their blogs anyway, even though the more I read, the less I respect them. Or each blog post that I read makes me want to send them a long email detailing my stance on whatever topic they wrote about. You might ask why I read if I hate. There are two answers. One is that I have a lot of downtime at work where I need to appear busy. The other is that I don't only want to read about things I relate to and people I agree with. I want to see different ways to think about things. I want to understand why people think about certain topics the way they do.

There is a blog I read written by a woman who could not be more different than me if we tried. Opposite ends of the country. She works from home, is a former drug abuser and alcoholic (personally she comes across to me as a dry drunk, but who knows if that's accurate?), grifter, etc. Anyway, her mother recently lived with her for the better part of a year, through some medical difficulties. This week, the mother moved out.

Throughout this experience, the blogger wrote about her difficulties with her mother. Including feeling like she couldn't have sex with her husband because of her mother being in the house. Which I didn't really understand since she made it clear the bedrooms are on a separate floor upstairs and the mother was living in the basement. And since the mother went places during the day while both this woman and her husband ... well he doesn't work, but they're both home during the day. They could have fucked worked it out.

The most recent blog post is about the relief felt now that the mother is out of the house. Like many (all?) of the blog posts mentioning the mother, it's painful to read how much she hated having her mother there, and equally painful to read how relieved and happy she is to have her mother finally gone. It's cruel to the mother. It's sort of cruel to all the people whose mothers have died and would put up with any inconveniences to have a bit more time with their beloved relatives.

I didn't realize this until recently, but here is what happened in my house between December 1994 and August of 1995.

1. My grandmother died unexpectedly. 
2. I spectacularly failed out of college and had to move home.
3. Golden Boy moved home after being away for four years.
4. My grandfather, devastated by my grandmother's death, moved in with our family.
5. I fell ill, with difficult symptoms that included passing out, unexplained rashes and screaming in pain, then needing to be taken for medical tests numerous times via backboard and ambulance. 
6. My father was working at a job almost two hours away from home (each way).

That's what my mother was juggling in 1995. I was stuck in my bedroom, and each night around 11pm my mother would bring me a bowl of cereal so I could take the really strong pain killer that let me sleep for a solid four hours on good nights. She would sit in the rocking chair near the foot of my bed and tell me all the things my grandfather, her father, did that annoyed her. He wanted the thermostat turned up higher, he wanted dinner to be before my father got home, he wanted to put garlic in his oatmeal for breakfast and microwave it which stunk up the house (I didn't smell it, but I never left my bedroom).

For Father's Day my parents solved the garlic problem by gifting my grandpa with garlic pills. My grandpa, despite being quite good to me, always viewed and treated my father like an evil son-in-law. I have never once heard my father say anything cruel about my grandfather. As frustrated as both my parents got with my grandfather, even while dealing with one sick kid and one boomerang kid, they never would have done what this woman does had blogs existed then.

Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Donations

Today I went back to the dentist. After about 18 or 19 years of not going, I went last month. I had one cavity. So today it got fixed. I love my dentist. Despite having not been to one in almost two decades, every single person in his office who I met (four people) were simply friendly, reassuring, and expressed happiness that I'd simply gotten there.

He owns his own practice, and while I was confirming my next appointment six months out, I saw a piece of paper on the ledge. It was sandwiched between two photographs - one of two kids, and one of two adults. One of those adults was my dentist, but with hair. He looks better bald.

The piece of paper, it turns out, was something my dentist wrote about his sister, who was the girl/woman in the two pictures. Apparently she has leukemia, and is dying of it. She has two little boys. The only chance of her living is to get either a bone marrow transplant or stem cell transplant. My dentist is asking if anyone would be willing to get tested to see if they might be a match.

Here's the thing. If you're reading here, you're someone who's been reading here for years. So to a certain extent you know me. While I give homeless people backpacks, I also laugh at people who trip and fall down. What I'm saying is, I'm sort of middle of the road when you average me out.

It would be a nice thing to see if I'm a match for the dentist's sister. My only hesitation is, if I actually am (and I understand it's a long shot) then I'd kind of have to then donate either stem cells or bone marrow. Otherwise I'd be a total asshole, and more than cancel out the niceness of getting tested. It'd basically be cruel.

The truth is I went through a lot of physical pain when I was 18. Actually, I'm in pain right this very second, though it's from the cavity filling (I hope). So I'm not really sure I'm down for a painful medical procedure. Getting bone marrow extracted, while done under general anesthesia, is still really painful. The stem cell harvest requires that prior to donating blood, you get injections of a medication that like, plumps up the blood (I'm a little vague on the reasoning) and one of the side effects is that it makes your joints stiff. I already have arthritis, so ... Granted, the stiffness goes away after a few weeks.

I would absolutely never, ever consider this if I didn't have health insurance. Which I do. Part of my hesitation is about the physical - how much will it hurt? But another reason I'm hesitating is because I don't want to be that person. What if the dentist thanked me? What if he wanted me to meet his sister and she like, introduced me to people and told them? I don't want to deal with that. I hate concentrated attention. You can extract bone marrow, but can't extract introversion.

Also, I don't want people saying things to me that are stupid. Like if I bitch that something hurts, and someone says, "Think about what a wonderful thing you're doing to distract yourself from the pain"? If that happened, I'd be thinking about how stupid that is to say because it doesn't at ALL distract me from pain, and I'm not even distracted from pain by thinking about how stupid you are.

I really like my dentist. He's a great dentist, but he's also a great guy. So if there were a way to help out someone he cares about who he can't help himself, I want to say I'd do it. But what if I'm not a match for his sister, but I am a match for like, some totally random person? I don't want to do this for a stranger who has no Kevin Bacon connection, you know? But then that's terrible. Who am I to decide that one person is deserving of living and another isn't?

Can I just be tested to help the dentist's sister? Without going on some national database? Because I might be interested in being helpful, but only to like, one person. Clearly calling me a bitch is not a strong enough word for what I am.

Everything I've read about this talks about what a great thing it is. I don't care about that. That's what you get from someone who has been disenchanted with life for a couple of decades. I don't think living is such a fantastic thing. So I don't care about doing some wonderful, noble thing that helps other people live. I grasp that others don't feel the way I do, and they do love life, and do want to live it. Having gone to high school with a few kids who grew up without a parent, or had a parent die in their childhood, it's clear how devastating that is.

Now you say something deep.

Menches Shake Hands

*There is no word for female menches.

A hundred years ago I was at the library we used in New York, when I witnessed a fight. A couple was there, an old man had done something to upset the woman, and the husband was screaming at the old man. It upset me, and apparently, stayed with me. I love the library, and I want everyone to be in their happy place when they're in my happy place. These were grown adults! And the younger guy was threatening to beat up the old man! How could it be that adults couldn't resolve whatever the problem was, verbally? 

On Saturday I went to Trader Joe's after volunteering. I was standing near the strawberries when I became aware of a man with a little girl around the age of five standing behind me. Another man had gone up to him, and there was a weird tension in the air, which I think is what made me notice them.

Apparently the father cut the other guy off in the parking lot, and the response the father got was a finger and some screaming. The guy had come over to apologize. Except that in the midst of apologizing he tried to justify why he'd done what he had. The father tried to thank the guy for apologizing while also defending what he'd done too.

It could have dissolved at that point. Magically, they somehow managed to come back around to the fact that one guy walked over to apologize, and the father was able to appreciate this and even apologized for his part, and they shook hands. I was pleased.

While at work today I called the leasing office to inquire after my sink, and mentioned to the guy how upsetting it was to be accused of having caused the problem. He assured me they knew I hadn't caused it, and in fact had figured out what went wrong and how to fix it. He apologized that I'd been accused, and I thanked him for that.

Tonight I got home from work to find that my bathroom was fixed. The pipe had been repaired. The floor was cleaned of sludge. They even noticed loose tiles in my shower and repaired those. Grossly, they'd put the basket of tampons and makeup bags that had gotten sludge on them back into the cabinet under the sink. But. Still. The sludge was gone. I wet-Swiftered the floor, and cleaned the sink with my cleaning stuff.

A little after 8 p.m. there was a knock at my door. It was Ole' Nudey. He told me he was here to apologize that he'd made me feel like he thought I'd caused the pipe to burst. That he knew I hadn't. Ole' Nudey looked nervous. I thanked him for saying that, and added that emotions were running high yesterday, from being surprised with such a big, unexpected mess, and I was sorry too, if I'd taken out my frustration on him. Ole' Nudey thanked me back, and reiterated his sorries. I thought of the Trader Joe's guys, and promptly realized I should offer to shake Ole' Nudey's hand. He's like 70, and very old school, so exactly the type of guy who would see significant meaning in a hand shake. I stuck my hand out and smiled. We shook hands, and I wished him a good night. He wished me a good night. Then Ole' Nudey walked off, towards his apartment, where I assume he got naked.

The Church of Later Day Saints and banks always do commercials about paying kindnesses forward. Nobody's ever done a commercial about apologizing, or accepting an apology. They should. The Trader Joe's guys helped me.

Jealousy

Last Friday Turkey and I were talking in the conference room, and he suggested that he'd know something when he does his taxes - either this April or October. Then based on what he found out when he filed his taxes, I could file mine.

I looked at him quizzically. "I already filed my 2012 taxes." Turkey could not process this fact, and immediately proceeded to ask me if I'd filed my 2012 taxes three times, in three different ways. At one point he said to me, "But you couldn't have."

Actually, I could have, and I did. Turkey gave me the prior year's tax form, and the very next weekend I spent close to an hour cranking out my taxes.

Maybe four or so years ago, there was an associate working for Turkey whose wife was pregnant. Something happened in utero to the fetus, and the baby came out with all sorts of problems. Turkey promptly fired the associate, claiming he'd have to take off too much time from work for doctor's appointments. Last month I was told it was that associate who reported Turkey to the IRS and caused him to get audited.

Immediately after the tax talk with Turkey, he began tossing papers at me to throw away. In my head, I immediately began frantically peeling the onion to figure out why Turkey's mood had turned so sharply. Then I realized - I'd bested him. My taxes are so simple that I do them myself. He has three different accountants. He always has to file for an extension while I filed my taxes almost three months before the deadline.

Turkey always has to be better than other people. He went to two different Ivy League universities. I barely made it through community college. He can not be bested by someone like me.

Today someone from the Ethics Commission called.

Back Down

Way back in the olden days, the general public never knew anything about actors except which films they had starred in. For the most part, there were never films about an actor's private life until after they had died.

There was a president in a wheelchair and nobody even knew he was handicapped. Now we know the intricate details of a former first lady's medical condition. There are gay people who've lived with their partners for decades and may not be able to find out the status of a partner in a hospital, but we know about Hillary Clinton's brain clot?

The fact that we have a tv show that tells us the details of Khloe Kardashian's uterus? Granted, she is an adult who made the decision to make her infertility struggles public. But I think she has made a mistake. I don't believe someone should be able to be famous for ... nothing.

Dance Moms could be a great show, if it featured what the moms do for their daughters in relation to dance. Instead, it's the teacher manipulating the students and mothers into frenzies, pitting them against each other, and the moms constantly sniping at each other, exchanging petty insults I could have come up with in seventh grade. My mother spent tons of time driving me to and from dance class, sometimes sitting in the reception area through the classes, and I assure you she was NEVER decked out in a dress, with full hair and makeup.

I just want everyone to back up a bit. Take a little pride in their talents, and showcase them, and ONLY them. Here's the press release I would like to see regarding Hillary Clinton's health: Former first lady and current U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was hospitalized on Wednesday for a non-life threatening medical condition. During her hospitalization, Jane Schmane, Head of Blah, will be covering for Ms. Clinton. We wish Ms. Clinton a speedy and full recovery. That's it. We don't need the details. It's none of our business. Why the hell do we need to know the medical intricacies of a non-family member? Does Hillary Clinton expect a get-well card from us? Should we tweet Bill?

I don't want to know why Bethenny Frankel is getting divorced. Hell, I don't even need to know that she's headed in that direction. Tell when her next book or product debut. The end.

We need to take things down a notch here. I never thought I would spend time thinking about how to be ignorant, but right now, that's the direction I'm headed in. I want to be ignorant of these things.

Grannies

I just realized today that I assume all old ladies are grannies, but pretty soon I'm going to be one of those old ladies and won't be a granny. Perhaps I should put it on my list of things to change about myself, right below "Say 'you're welcome' instead of 'no problem' and right above "Stop giving dirty looks to idiots who press the button for the wrong floor on the elevator."

Yesterday an old lady showed up at work. One of those super duper oldies who is hunched over at the shoulders and shakes and takes careful steps. She arrived during a very busy moment - four phone lines were ringing and another person was also standing at the counter needing my attention.

Many moons ago I worked at a tennis club that was often swamped and got told, "Always help the person standing in front of you before tending to the phones. That person made the effort to get in their car and come here." I have carried that with me for more than a dozen years. The other person standing there just wanted to serve me (not me personally, but I am allowed to accept service) so it was easy to get rid of him quickly.

The old lady was coming to drop off documents for our subtenant and pick up a letter. I knew this because one of our subtenants had called to ask if she could have me print out a two-page letter for me to give the client. The old lady needed to go through each concept slowly though, and I had all those phone calls holding.

One of the things I learned about old people in Florida is that they are used to be dismissed - they are our throwaways (in America). I didn't want to do that to her. Despite how slow she was, she was kind. I asked if she could give me a second, and I'd be right back to walk her through this. As I blew through calls, it seems she hadn't realized they'd been waiting, so when I got back to her she began to try to rush.

On our reception counter, we have about half a dozen business card stands, all filled with business cards of different attorneys, and she knocked over three of them. I told her not to worry, that I'd get them. You could see how much of an effort it was for her to move, and the idea of her crouching down, balancing to scoop up scattered business cards? No.

Today another old lady showed up, and instantly I smiled at her, "You must be the sister of the lady from yesterday - you look just like her!" She smiled and nodded, and her sister poked her head around to grin at me. They were so cute. They spent a few hours in our office, dropping their canes, slowly and carefully going up and down the stairs to my sunken living room to use the restroom, and when they were leaving they both wished me a happy Thanksgiving in case they didn't see me again. Then the first one I'd met yesterday reached out to me saying, "I'm sorry again about the cards yesterday; I was so embarrassed."

I waved my hand and told her, "I've already forgotten it happened," which of course wasn't true. It was was surprising to hear she was embarrassed. Anyone could have that happen. For some reason I always think of old people as not getting embarrassed anymore. Like they're above it, or something.

Messenger

Oh Turkey. You're Pigpen, in real life. You know it, and you aren't even ashamed of it. You don't care. Let's review what happened today, shall we? We normally have a staff meeting on Mondays at 9:30 wait let's stop. Staff meetings are scheduled for then, but they never start at that time. Why? Because of you, Turkey. Because you never arrive at the office then. Let's proceed. We all thought we weren't having the staff meeting this morning because you called an impromptu one last Friday. We were wrong though - you wanted one today. So we were all ready today at 9:25. All of us except you. You rolled into the office at 10:20 and asked if everybody was ready. Um, yes Turkey. The meeting went quickly since everything had been discussed one working day prior to today. Then you called me into your office.

"I did something really stupid, and I need you to help me." I nodded at you with wide and confident eyes. I have perfected this look. This look that says tell me all about how much of a fuckup you are, and I will not laugh to your face. Instead, I will fix it for you. Then I will race home to blog about it. 

Turkey, what have you done now? You drove to work and forgot your briefcase? The briefcase that has all the work you did over the weekend? Oh, and also the work you needed to finish up and get out to clients today? You're giving me what now? Your garage door opener and a key? You're giving me both because you can't remember if you left your briefcase on the floor of the garage or in the vestibule inside the locked door? Okay. I will call a messenger, have them come to the office to fetch these, then go to your house where they are to use one or both to find your briefcase. Upon fetching it, they are to close the garage door and bring the briefcase, garage door opener and key back to the office? Oh, and you drew me a diagram of where in their house they can go? Fine.

I call the messenger service. They send a guy. Who takes over an hour to get to our office. I hand him the stuff, and explain the diagram. He leaves. He returns with a briefcase and the stuff. I thank him. Turkey what did you say when I handed you the briefcase? That's right - you moaned, "Oh nooooo! That's the wrong briefcase! This is my laptop! How could he not tell that's a laptop briefcase?"

Turkey, because this is my blog, let me be honest with you here. I couldn't tell from the outside that the briefcase is a laptop briefcase. And that dude is a messenger. He rides a fucking bike for a living. You really think he's well-versed in different types of briefcases? No. No he is not.

So Turkey, in your infinite wisdom, tell me to get a messenger back, and this time, when they come to the office, they are to talk to you directly. Because of all of a sudden you are now magically able to recall exactly where the proper bag is in your house. Or your garage. So I call the messenger service. The woman goes silent. "It's okay to laugh, this whole thing is kind of ridiculously funny," I urge her. She laughs. We laugh together. I tell Office Manager what's going on, hand him the garage door opener and key, and leave for lunch.

When I get back to the building, Turkey you are standing in the lobby talking on your cell phone. I smile at you, and you gesture wildly at me. I nod wisely and proceed to the elevator, completely unsure of what you were trying to communicate to me. In our penthouse, I ask Office Manager what's going on. He tells me the messenger arrived, Turkey wasn't there, and since their instructions had been to talk to Turkey before going to his house and he's not there to talk with, they refused to go, and left our office. To say I laughed would be an understatement.

When you came upstairs Turkey, you were told this. Your solution was to announce that you would leave to go home and work from there in 15 minutes, and then promptly go to the bathroom. Where you dropped two sets of keys, which Office Manager was kind enough to pick up and get back to you, though you didn't acknowledge, let alone thank him. According to what had just happened you should have left the office by 2:50 (I took a late lunch).

Turkey, you left to begin work for the day at 4:45 p.m. Now I know this time change has screwed up a lot of people, but this is ridiculous. Let's pull our shit together and to better tomorrow, hmmm?

Oh Hey

I think about blogging often, but ... yeah, there's no good reason why I don't. I'm not super busy, there's been no dramatic happening, I haven't been too depressed, just ... haven't.

Yesterday I got home after a week of house and dog-sitting at Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house. Right before they left, there'd been some sort of kerfluffle which caused the internet to die.

At the library to use their computers, I had to wait in line but that was okay because, you know - there are books to read while waiting! Here's how you should picture it: there is a free-standing counter with five computers. Facing the back of the screens are five chairs. If you sit in Chair #1, you are first to use a computer when one frees up. Computer users get 15 minutes of computer time before the computer automatically kicks you off. If nobody is waiting in the chairs, you can use a second 15-minute block.

When I arrived, all the chairs were occupied. The guy sitting next to me looked how Santa would look if he'd gone to prison, lost some belly, and been forced to cut his hair upon arrival, but now some of it had grown back. Oh, and zero jollyness. He told me that on Sunday afternoons, the computers always have a long wait. I replied with something non-committal, and he continued, telling me about how on Sundays homeless people get kicked out of shelters for four hours while the shelters get cleaned, and the library is a great place to go.

Then he proceeded to tell me he'd been homeless, and a friend had been holding his computer for him, but then the friend gave it away. "Nice friend." The guy was very zen about it. "Well, it was for a long time." This guy was not crazy. When I started working for the Turkey a year and a half ago, I had enough money for one more month of rent. Then I was going to (squat until I got evicted) begin the descent into homelessness.

I used to think homeless people were homeless because insurance companies won't pay for mentally ill people to get all the treatment they need before kicking them out of the mental wards of hospitals. But after this experience and how crazy it made me, I realize facing homelessness, and being homeless can make you crazy. Priorities shift and then change.

My way of dealing with the impending doom was to compartmentalize. The morning I applied for food stamps was a multi-hour project with excellent people-watching. Upon leaving the food stamp place, I raced to meet my parents who were in town, saw a movie with them, and then went to dinner in North Beach. The dichotomy blew my mind and I had a hard time getting through dinner (and it wasn't just because the waiter weirdly decided to ignore everything I said) (I am not playing victim - even my father noticed it).

It strikes me as very impressive to meet someone who has been homeless and to see they're not mentally ill. Of course, the library guy might be. Maybe he was in a cycle of taking his meds, or maybe being in the library was his safe, happy place and nothing was triggering him. But in my older age I seek out good, sparkles and sunshine, and I would like to think he went through something horrific and came out of it intact.

He's not homeless anymore, though (first world problem alert) he doesn't have a computer. Hence, the library. I don't know what we chatted about. The Giants? The weather? I was so focused on not being nosy by asking inappropriate questions about his homelessness (how long? how terrified were you? how did you deal with being terrified?) that I wasn't fully paying attention to whatever we were discussing. 

I love closure. In all forms. When I write the letter "o" the two ends always overlap. There's certainly never an "o" written by me where the two ends don't quite meet. I like to say goodbye, rather than drift apart. If you tell me about a fight with a friend, I want to know how it was resolved. If we met, I will think of you 16 years from that meeting and wonder where you are, what you're doing. It's beyond closure.

The (non) homeless guy finally got a computer, so our conversation ended. A bit later I got one too. When I was walking away, I saw the guy was still using his 15 minutes. One of the things I strongly disliked in my family was that it seemed like our family motto was, "Don't get involved; worry about yourself." It was as if because my bedroom was always a mess and I'd never done my homework, I couldn't possibly help someone who was crying by offering them a tissue, or letting someone know they'd dropped something. It drove me nuts. I didn't, and still don't, understand it. But I don't live under their rules.

Before I could change my mind, I doubled-back and gently touched the formerly homeless guy on the arm. "I'm glad you're not homeless anymore," I told him. He laughed. "Me too." I wanted good closure. "I hope it stays that way; good luck." He turned away from the computer to look at me. "Hey, thanks." I waved and went to the elevators.

Maybe he thinks I'm crazy. It doesn't matter. To know how low I was and how far I've come... and I didn't even wind up homeless. I just wanted to acknowledge his achievement. The impressiveness of it. Because it really, really is. I wanted him to know somebody else saw that. You don't get a bonus for getting a roof over your own head. The bonus is the roof.

One of our neighborhood homeless guys just died a couple of days ago. There are flowers and a little memorial set up for him.

Parking Wars

I love this show. Here's the premise: a camera crew follows a parking enforcement officer (or two) around a city as they give tickets and boot cars. It's always in what I think of as second tier cities - Providence, RI, Detroit, Philly, etc.

I love this show because I am fascinated by people's reactions to getting a ticket. I got a ticket once. Yes, once. I was 20, and illegally parked outside of a restaurant to run in and pick up my order instead of trying to find a parking spot in a mostly full parking lot. Do you know why I did that? Because, like the guy who recently jumped into the tiger den at the Bronx Zoo, I momentarily lost any semblance of common sense. Thank goodness my lack of sense simply resulted in a little embarrassment and a loss of $25 or whatever it was, and didn't result in multiple broken bones, and national public humiliation. I don't know why I thought my desire to save some time was more important than following laws, but it's over 15 years later now and I've never done that again. As someone who spent a good portion of 1995 being carried on back boards in and out of ambulances, I should really have known better.

When the ticketing officer came over to me with the ticket, I tried to talk my way out of it. He politely but firmly refused my (admittedly very lame) excuse. I mumbled a thank you while taking the ticket, because while I may have been a horrible kid, I was at least a horrible kid who learned good manners.

I am amazed by all the people on Parking Wars who scream, curse and threaten the parking people. I guess that's what makes for good tv. I wonder if they act like assholes because there's a camera crew. Ten years ago, when reality shows were newer, yes maybe. These days, I am guessing having a camera in your face is simply not as big a deal.

Though I have still not been able to wrap my brain around how people can behave so badly, treat others so poorly, and not be horribly ashamed of their behavior. The other thing I don't understand is the sense of entitlement so many of these people have. I want to understand the psychology behind being angry at yourself for a stupid decision and taking it out on the person who forces you to acknowledge those stupid decisions.

Hey all this talk of driving reminds me - can I borrow your car for an hour or so? I like to drive every few months. I'm terrified of forgetting how. Thanks, and I promise not to get any tickets.

NYC in SF

I miss New York sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. I miss having a car. I wouldn't want to have to pay for a garage or circle a block looking for parking, but I miss getting places relatively quickly. Yesterday I was going to a kosher-style deli, and had to stand around on a street corner in Chinatown for 12 minutes, waiting for the bus to chug its way up the hill. While standing around lamenting my lack of book to pass the time, I noticed the street sign for the alley across the street, smiled, and jaywalked over to take a picture (see attached).

While I don't hang out in Chinatown on a regular basis, I've been there in the past, and never seen any crime. Yet while on the bus on the way in, the bus driver announced three times, "Next stop, Chinatown, watch your wallets!" The Chinese kid (mid 20's?) in a suit sitting next to me laughed and nodded his head each time. All the tourists looked scared and grabbed their purses and kids a little bit tighter. For the entire 14 or so minutes I was in Chinatown, I continued my apparently lucky streak of not seeing any crime.

The Other Side of Turkey

As Jennifer Anderson was kind enough to point out, twice, I slam Turkey quite a bit. So I thought I'd switch things up and mention something he's very good about.

As I've shared in the past, we have sub-tenants. My Gay Crush (and I'm not just saying this because I have a crush on him) is low maintenance. He never has any clients come into the office. Mail comes in for him, I put it in a folder labeled GAY CRUSH (or his name, whatever) and he stops by to pick up his mail about once or twice a week. Once every other month or so, an accounting boy stops by to do stuff for an hour or so.

We have another sub-tenant who never shows up. They get mail. I dump it in a folder. Once a month, someone comes by to pick it up. The end.

We have a THIRD sub-tenant who is actually Turkey's employment attorney. He uses our office a few times a year, just when he needs to have meetings in the city. His main office is elsewhere. A few times a year he gets mail. No biggie.

Then we have our main sub-tenants. They are so much work. For me. They get mail. They have the guy (who asked me out) who comes by daily to pick it up. They have me date-stamp their mail. Fine. They pay higher rent than the other sub-tenants because they use our small conference room sometimes to meet with clients. Their clients are ... characters.

The main sub-tenants don't seem to ever tell their clients that they're just renting office space at our office. So the clients walk in and think I work for the attorneys. I don't. They don't pay me. They're not insured in any way that protects them from any mistakes I may make. Often, they will ask me for things that I either can not give (today for example, I was asked for a clipboard. I do not have a clipboard to give), or am not allowed to give (legal advice).

Now, last week, a gentle and sweet Asian man asked to use the restroom after his meeting. While he did that, the sub-tenant he'd just met with, left. When the man came out he asked if I would give his phone number to the attorney because he wasn't sure he'd done that. Sure. I zipped off an email to the attorney, and 30 seconds later, the old man was leaving. That's cool. That's the type of help I'm prepared to give.

The woman who showed up today asked if I could look up the total she owed in her file. No, I'm sorry. Well, could she borrow a clipboard? No, I'm sorry. Well, could she just borrow this (our client's) file to lean against while she wrote out a check? No, I'm sorry, but you're welcome to lean against the counter. Oh, could she borrow a pen? Sure. Could I just confirm that she wrote the correct amounts on each check that she's about to give to an attorney? Um, no. I can not take responsibility for that. What if she gets sued because I told her she wrote the right amount because I was rushing to get back to my work and made a mistake, and then she counter-sues me?

Turkey is excellent in these situations. Once, when someone wouldn't leave, I kept eye contact with them while scribbling "Get Turkey!" on a post-it and handed it to a co-worker. He popped right out of his meeting and took over, physically moving the person away from my desk, and then hilariously walking them to the stairs saying, "Let's talk over here," but then following with, "I'm sorry we can't help you. Be careful on your way down."

Today I didn't have to pass a post-it. Timing worked in my favor, and immediately after the woman asked me to review the checks she'd written, someone announced Turkey wanted to see me. I excused myself and ran into Turkey's office to see what he needed. After answering a couple of questions, I told him a client for our sub-tenant kept distracting me from drafting the email he'd asked me to send to a client. Turkey immediately stood, handed me a document while instructing me to go scan it, and strode out to talk with the woman.

He introduced himself, explained that we cannot assume liability for work related to another law firm, further explained that I was busy with work assigned to me by lawyers in my firm who I work for, and escorted her out. Turkey may forever be getting sued and losing something important (cell phone is the latest), but it's a relief to know I can always count on him for backup when the sub-tenant's clients are asking for more than I'm prepared to give.


*I'm a bitch, sure, but the reason I only provide minimal help to clients of our sub-tenants is because there really are liability issues. Never mind that I'm busy working for Turkey, who actually pays me. Never mind that the sub-tenants have a signed agreement with Turkey that actually spells out the limits of what services the person sitting at my desk provides.

This Type of Waste

I think it was 2009 or 2010 when I lived for an entire year, including unemployment, on $19,000.  In the year-long moment I didn't realize it. It was only when I was doing my taxes for the previous year that I saw, and then cried. In San Francisco, that's not a lot of money for a year. Maybe it is in the Kentucky mountains or something. But not here.

Our prior office manager filed for unemployment. Turkey appealed. She fought the appeal. It went to a hearing. The hearing took so long that they needed to schedule a second hearing, to hear even more information. Turkey brought in his employment attorney to prep and attend both hearings. To date, he's spend $33,000 in legal bills on this.

Ask me how much his unemployment insurance would go up if Prior Office Manager is awarded unemployment. Go ahead, ask me. Okay, I'll tell you. IF five (or eight? I forgot the exact number) former employees file for it and are receiving at the same time, then Turkey's unemployment insurance payments go up LESS THAN 1%!

You know how there are all kinds of rules and regulations companies have to follow, as long as they have 20 or more employees? Yeah. Turkey has fewer than three full-time employees. He's got me, and Current Office Manager. Everyone else is part-time or an independent contractor. So I'm pretty confident in saying that less than 1% of Turkey's unemployment insurance payments are less than $33,000. 

Thus, Turkey wasted money. This is not the first time he's done something like this. He's gone to arbitration with former clients over outstanding legal bills and spent tens of thousands of dollars in time (he bills out at over $400 an hour, so it's pretty easy to calculate), all in an effort to get that former client to pay $2,000 that Turkey believes they owe him.

It's no joke to say that I could live on $33,000. Not well, but I could do it. It's things like this that cause me to have almost no respect for Turkey.

Tell Me to Keep My Mouth Shut

Turkey got a new personal assistant a couple of months ago. Now somebody new slices his salami. Let's say the new personal assistant's name is Nicki. I like Nicki as a person. She's fun to talk with, and it'd be fun to hang out with her. For maybe two hours, three hours tops. She's got a frenetic energy to her that, mixed with Red Bull, I find a little exhausting. She's 28, and acts like it. The office manager is 11 years older than I am, and even with that big of an age-gap, we both feel like Nicki's distinctly in a different generation than we are.

Nicki confuses aggressive with assertive. Nicki thinks she is the best thing since organic, whole-wheat, locally sliced bread. She does not know how to pull her own weight. She thinks she is smarter than everyone around her. Now, to be perfectly honest, I think with a little bit of training, I could do a better job than Turkey at what he does. But Nicki has never worked in an office together, and based on how she gets along with all of us, she clearly failed kindergarten.

Nicki works remotely sometimes. She is supposed to be able to access our Outlook system via her iPhone. Yet she is forever calling me from afar and saying, "Hey, can you give me Julie Ducket's phone number?" Here's the wild and crazy thing: she does this when she's in the office too. Forever claiming she can't find someone within the Contacts. I've told her more than once that she needs to have access to Turkey's calendar and contacts, and if she doesn't, to call IT and make them make it happen. I guess it's easier for her to just ask me.

All work emails sent to Nicki are supposed to both go to her work email address, and automatically forward to her gmail. She has a habit of not doing tasks Turkey gives her, and then claiming she didn't receive the email telling her to do said task. Last week she claimed she only gets emails forwarded to gmail if the Outlook program is open on her work computer. I don't believe that, but fine, so the second Turkey relayed Nicki was telling him this, I got out of my seat, went to her computer, and opened Outlook.

Three hours later when she still hadn't done the task, she told Turkey I had only turned on her computer. That I hadn't understood her Outlook program also needed to be open. Bullshit. She just didn't want to do what she'd been told.

The very first task Nicki was given two months ago, was not done. Office Manager and I were supposed to do it last week since Nicki didn't do it, but we were both busy doing our regular work and didn't get around to it. Tomorrow, Nicki leaves for Germany for three weeks (don't ask) and her substitute started today. I decided to punt, and gave him this file cabinet project from hell.

When I told Nicki that, she was happy, and I gently said I'd gotten the impression she simply was never going to do it. She nodded in agreement, and told me, "That ... stuff, isn't my forte." Yeah, no shit. Seems like a lot of things fall into that category. Problem is, when Nicki doesn't do things, someone else has to do them. It is not acceptable (to me) when that person is me!

Lunching With My Gay Crush

There's this outrageously hot gay subtenant at work who I have a crush on. I kid you not, I have giggled at things he's said. Giggled. He's just so prettttttty. And smart. And funny. I don't remember how it went down, but the Turkey said something to me, I made a face, and Gay Crush mumbled something that let me know he knew Turkey was ... well, a turkey. My love for him was cemented.

Luckily I don't twirl around in my chair while giggling all day long, though that does sound fun. Gay Crush and I chat throughout the day. Not so much when Turkey's around, or when GC is busy, but enough that we know some basics about each other's lives. For example, I know GC has an equally pretty boyfriend who he lives with. GC knows if Turkey's not around and I'm not busy, he can chat with me about the Bravo shows.

About two weeks ago GC and I went to lunch. How we came to have a lunch date really took me by surprise. I was reading a review of a nearby restaurant and happened to ask GC if he'd gone there. He hadn't and when I said I hadn't either but was intrigued by it, GC asked, "Wanna go?" I replied, "With you? OH MY GOD YES!" Okay, no I didn't, but that's totally what happened in my head. In actuality, I shrugged and said sure.

It took us forever to actually go. CG travels a lot, so he's out of the office at least one week each month. I wanted to go on a day when Turkey was out of the office, so I wouldn't have to worry about getting back in exactly 60 minutes. Then I was sick for about a month and wanted to wait to go until I was better, so I'd be able to taste food. Then GC got busy with work and wasn't taking lunches.

Finally though, all the stars aligned and CG asked me one Monday, "Hey, are we doing our lunch this week? How about tomorrow?" So it was tomorrow. I picked out my least ugly outfit. I dug out my Clinique Bonus Time free lipstick. I took the advice my cousin's husband gave me over a decade ago and read the newspaper, stockpiling topics we could talk about. I even double-checked the menu online to make sure there were still things on there that I like. I was prepared.

We walked over and got seated. Immediately, there was an awkward happening. Gay Crush is a bit of a lush. Not at work of course, but he totally goes home and boozes it up with his partner while they have dinner each night. He asked if I'd be getting something to drink. The thing is, I only ever drink water in restaurants. GC seemed to want to get a glass of wine or something. I told him I didn't mind if he got wine. "Oh, you'll get one too?" It felt awkward telling him, "Oh, no, I just meant it's not an alcoholic thing with my not drinking - you should totally feel free to drink if you want to." Yeah. He had water. Apparently people feel weird boozing it up if the person they're with isn't also boozing it up.

Luckily, we managed to get past this, and Gay Crush asked if I wanted to share a side dish with him. Sharing food? How intimate, of course! Then we ordered our food, and Gay Crush decided it was the perfect time to tell me the history of his quest to keep from going bald. Yes, you read that correctly. I had to sit there and listen to GC talk all about balding medications. For the record, he has perfectly nice hair. No power alleys or comb-overs or anything.

GC then pointed out how he dressed up for our lunch, by wearing jeans and a button-down shirt instead of his usual jeans and a polo. I confessed to wearing mascara as my effort to dress up. We laughed. We shared a side of fancy mac & cheese. I arrived at the lunch prepared to pay, but GC insisted he'd pay. He didn't look at his Crackberry once throughout the entire meal. He made gay jokes. Told me about his experiences as a child of having his parents deal with all injuries by getting antibiotics cheaply from Mexico (he's from CA, near the border).

I was worried it'd be weird when we got back to the office, but it wasn't. I'm not sure exactly how that was avoided, but ... it was so normal that it almost made me wonder why I even worried it'd be weird in the first place. I bet it was thanks to the mascara.

The Wasp Talks About Farting

In church. That's right you guys. I may not go out to parties and date tons of hot guys, but I can get a WASPy woman who wears low ponytails and turtlenecks to tell me a story about farting in a church. With how good I am at getting people to open up, I should be interviewing famous people!

Let's start with Chris Brown. Chris, why do you think you deserve to not have to complete your community service? Chris, if you had a daughter, how would you feel to know she'd tweeted that she'd be happy to have a boy beat her? Chris, what do you think is wrong with you that you're not embarrassed to show your face in public?

Anywayyyy. It turns out the WASP has a great sense of humor and although she's pretty conservative in lifestyle, she can joke about wacky things with the rest of them.

So she was telling me about how over the weekend, she went to church with her two elementary-aged kids. Apparently one was supposed to go sit with another bunch of kids, but refused to go without the WASP. Good, supportive mom that the WASP is, she went to sit in the pews with the kids.

Wasp Son was sitting next to a little girl, and on his other side, was WASP. During the service, the little girl farted. Loudly. More than once. Apparently Wasp Son knew he wasn't supposed to laugh, but couldn't help it. WASP reported to me that his entire body was shaking with laughter as he tried to hold it in, which caused her to start. She had tears rolling down her eyes, and finally just grabbed Wasp Son and hauled him out of the chapel (church?). The second they got away he burst out with, "Mommy, I'm so sorry for laughing at the farting and making you laugh at it too!"

I'm having a really hard time at work lately. This story was recounted to me at the start of the day, and was the only funny part of the day today.

Madonna Has Zero Body Fat

I watched her halftime show and was not a fan of the hat or her hair. It was a relief when the hat came off. Even though there's now a thing called hairography I'm still not a fan of extensions.

I hear you call my name, and it feels like home.

I was twelve years old when Like a Prayer came out. Madonna had a big Pepsi endorsement then, and Pepsi including the song in their commercials. My dad used to pick me up from hebrew school twice a week, and I remember talking with him about Pepsi yanking their contract with Madonna because of her Like a Prayer video, because she kissed a black Jesus on the lips. At least that's what I understood as a Jewish 12 year-old girl. Now that I've looked it up, the guy is supposed to be a saint.

While I was able to recognize that french kissing was inappropriate in any religious setting, I sided with Madonna at the time. It was clear to me even then that she was doing it to be controversial, that that's what she was all about.

You know what I was thinking while watching that halftime show?

1. If you looked solely at the choreography and costumes, you could have picked up this show and placed it in 1989 and it'd have worked just fine. Like ballet flats, it's nice to see concepts cross decades. (You'll note Madonna wears black ballet flats in the Like a Prayer video.)

2. Madonna didn't lie. She said in interviews leading up to the Superbowl that there would be no wardrobe malfunctions and there weren't any. In fact, if you looked at what she was wearing, it provided a lot more coverage than the Madonna costumes of yore. Gone are the weird cone boobs. For the Superbowl, she was practically wearing a dress that'd be appropriate in a church. Madonna's dancing is a little provocative , but her outfits certainly weren't.

Where Are You?

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

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.