Wellie ... No

About a year ago I noticed Wellies, and thought they looked like so much fun to have, that I wanted a pair. Or Two. Or Four. I kept looking around at stores that sold them, trying to figure out which ones to buy. Which ones would make me happiest, yet also go with the majority of my clothes.

Every time I was in a shoestore, I'd go look at their Wellies. Every time it rained, and my no-brand black boots that I've had since I was 17 kept my feet dry, I'd look down at them and think, "Who keeps shoes for a dozen years? These aren't even Docs or anything. It's time I upgrade."

Yet I just kept looking. And looking. And out on the street, when I'd see someone walk by in their Wellies, I'd eye them wistfully. I resisted the urge to stop them and ask. Where did you find those? Are you happy with your choice? Did you buy more than one pair to go with all different outfits?

Then I started paying attention to more than just the Wellies themselves. I noticed how rubbery they are. And how they looked with people's outfits. I realized something. They looked kind of awful. Basically, they only look good with either jeans that are rolled up a little bit (and even that is iffy), or with leggings. I suppose they look alright with skinny jeans tucked in, but how many people actually look good in skinny jeans? Right, like six. And two of them live in New York, three live in Europe, and the last is Ashley Olson.

The main reason I want Wellies is for going to and from work. My work clothes will NOT look right with Wellies. Not even with plain black ones. It's not like I muck stalls. Or go camping. Or fishing. Or spend time in commercials for Irish Spring. I don't even spend time tromping through the English countryside with my dogs on the weekends. In fact, I can only wear jeans on Fridays, and I don't own any leggings. I used to, but then I finished sixth grade.

For the last few weeks it's been raining almost every day. Maybe Mother Nature thought I missed living in Florida (I don't). Anyway, the Wellies are all around me (just like signs*). The other day I realized something. I'm not going to buy Wellies. Not just because I'm in debt up to my eyeballs, but because I'm perfectly content admiring them in stores and on other people's feet, without actually owning any myself.

Think of me next time it's raining, and put on your funky Wellies. If I had a car, I'd honk and wave, but I don't, so I'll just smile quietly instead. You know, as opposed to smiling loudly.

*First person to tell me what that's from wins a prize (not Wellies)!

Heh - Good Luck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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