I shocked myself

Actually, I once did literally shock myself, in my childhood kitchen. I was unplugging a computer and accidentally pulled the silver part of the plug.

But when I wrote this title, I was thinking of something else. For the last few months, I haven't been able to read. Since I learned how, I've been a voracious reader. The librarians recognize me at the little library down the street. It's been a once-a-week thing for most of my adult life. Yet all of a sudden, each time I picked up a book, it seemed boring and I couldn't finish. Hell, I couldn't make it past the first chapter.

Now sure, every once in a while, you accidentally pick up a clunker. These things happen. Either a book everyone raved about doesn't quite do it for you, or an author you've always liked suddenly burns out or tries to write in a new direction and it doesn't work. This was something else. After a few books of this, I just gave up on reading. I didn't know what else to do.

Last week, I decided this is just unacceptable. I refuse to be someone who is not a reader. My plan was to start super duper simple, and work back up to my regular simple books. So I marched myself six blocks to the library, determined to get a John Grisham or Danielle Steel book. Under normal circumstances, both of those authors infuriate me with their predictable plots. All Danielle Steel's main characters are the same - a physically tiny woman who is beautiful and suffers great tragedies and great fortunes. The women are always described as living simple lives, which are actually the lives of the 1%. You know, because they think they'll "only" fly first class for their yearly visit to London or New York or Paris. Where they've been going for so many years that the people who work there know the main character's name. Normally, drives me nuts. Naturally, I figured this simplistic type of plot-line was just what I needed to get back on track.

However, what caught my eye was a Nora Roberts book, and even though I consider those books to be on the same level as Danielle Steel's books, reading a Nora Roberts book didn't make me hate myself quite as much. To be honest, the book was good. I read it in two days. Achievement unlocked.

Two days ago it was time for another trip to the library to trade up. I grabbed a biography by some woman whose father had been a mildly famous writer a few decades ago. According to the adult daughter, the father sexually abused her. The book seems to be about her relationship with her father. Then I read that he raped her when she was seven. That was when I did something that shocked me. I thought, "That's it?"

Um, excuse me? That is a completely unacceptable thought to have about a little girl being raped! What the fuck is wrong with me? Have I read so many articles and blog stories (and seen Lifetime movies) about rape that I've become desensitized to it?  Now I have a lot of wacky ideas and thoughts - I'm the girl who giggles when people trip - and normally I'm fine with that. This one though, I'm more than not fine with. Not by a long shot.

I'm not sure where to go with this. For now, I've put that book aside. I'm pretty sure all these articles and talks about rape are meant to "raise awareness" and change the way society views rape. It seems like it hasn't worked the right way for me. All the articles about the thousands and thousands of rape kits untested? The fraternities that make up rape songs? Maybe it's similar to that "If I don't laugh, I'll cry" mentality? Whatever the case, having a "that's it?" reaction to rape is not okay with me, and needs to change. Immediately. 

We Are Not Idiots

When I was in tenth grade, my marketing teacher offended me while showing us a movie in class. It wasn't the specific movie that was the problem. It was the fact that she showed the movie over several days, and each day after the first, she would rewind the movie by 15-20 minutes to "remind everyone what was happening." It offended me so much that she thought we couldn't remember what was happening for 24 hours.  Looking back, it's clear she just didn't feel like teaching and was trying to drag out the movie as much as possible. Also offensive.

Bitchy gossipy moment: I am 38. That teacher is on Facebook, and claims she's 41. I was 15 when she was my teacher. Grow up woman! Own your age.

For the last several years, I've noticed tv shows do this as well. The first minute of a tv show recaps what happened on the last episode. What the fuck? We can remember what happened a week ago. This is just ridiculous and once again, I'm offended.

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.

Hi. Can I Come Over?

... to use your bathroom? I came home from work today and thought nothing of it when I heard what sounded like the people who live above me taking a shower.

The sound of rushing water sounded a little different, but I remembered my bathroom window was still open from my shower this morning (my attempt to combat mold since there's no bathroom fan), and figured maybe the upstairs neighbors had their window open too. That could be why the water sound was different, right?

Wrong. I glanced into my bathroom and saw, well, what you see to the right. It's all over the floor. I promptly freaked out, called my landlord, listened to the outgoing voice mail message to get the phone number for the nudist handyman who lives in the building, and called him. It was about 6:15 in the evening.

Ole' Nudey was not pleased to be interrupted. But I begged and implored him! My bathroom is unusable! That won't do. Plus, this is exactly the type of thing you're supposed to call him about. I wasn't calling to say a light bulb was out, or that my neighbors were being annoying. I was calling to say there's a flood of sludge all over my bathroom floor and I can't tell where it's coming from (and I have to pee)!

So Ole' Nudey puts down his blunt, puts on his clothes (maybe that happened in the opposite order; I wasn't there) and comes up to my apartment. He peaks into the bathroom after I point towards it, and asks me, "What happened?"

"I have no idea! I just came home from work and saw this and then promptly called you." Ole' Nudey proceeded to repeatedly accuse me of tampering with the piping underneath the sink. Bitch, please. I fucking wash my hands for 30 seconds any time I accidentally bump my hand against the pipes getting anything. I would never purposely touch pipes! Can he not SEE how prissy I am? Why on earth would I futz around with pipes? That's just utter and complete crazy-talk!

This is the same guy who kept accusing me of flushing tampons down my toilet (never) when the real problem was there wasn't enough water pressure when I first moved here. I don't know if it's me, or Ole' Nudey is this accusatory with everyone, but it infuriates me. Any time I have to interact with this guy he accuses me of causing the problem. 

Ole' Nudey's solution to my bathroom problem was to go to the apartment below and next to me to tell my neighbors not to use their bathroom sink until tomorrow. Oh, and to tell me he'll have somebody come by tomorrow to fix my sink. So I should just not use my bathroom at all until after it's all been fixed tomorrow. Because I have no problem going more than 12 hours without peeing. Ole' Nudey suggested I just use my kitchen sink instead of my bathroom sink. If there are guys peeing into their sinks, I don't want to know about it. I'll just take this moment to let you know that I have never in my life peed into any sink of any kind. Once, I went to this girl Juliet's house and we went to a nearby playground. I needed to pee and she tried to tell me to go in the bushes but I wouldn't, and she got angry at having to bring me back to her house.

My friend came over and calmed me down. She then bravely stepped INTO THE SLUDGE (and as she pointed out, let's all appreciate that as gross as it is, at least it's sink sludge and not toilet sludge) to lay down about half a dozen plastic garbage bags so I can at least step into the bathroom on top of the bags to use my toilet until I get to work tomorrow. In the top picture you can see the bags along the bottom third of it.

The second picture is a makeup bag formerly kept in a basket formerly kept under the sink, that now has sink sludge all over it. It will all be thrown out. As will the bathmat which got sink sludge in it too. As horrible as this is, I am so relieved to be in a place financially where throwing out something doesn't make me cry, and having to replace something doesn't cause a panic.

Okay. So. If you need me, I'll be rocking back and forth in my chair and trying not to scratch the hives that have popped up on the insides of my wrists. To think these fuckers are raising my rent in July.

Thanks

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.

Writing on the Wall

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.

This Needs Washing Out

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.

Give Me An Attitude Adjustment

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.

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.

Dejected

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.

Swallowing

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.

"I Make a Lot of Money Too"

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.

Fighting the Food Revolution

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?

Once Again, I'm All Riled Up

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

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.

That Email We Knew Was Coming

Barrett has instructed me to respond with, "Thank you for the email Wooffers." My comments are in italics.

Green,

In order to accommodate your needs and avoid conflict, I will need 24 hours notice (via email) when you are having anyone come over to help you with packing and moving. The first half of her sentence starts out with accommodating my needs but the second half ends when her saying what she needs? I made arrangements with [Exboyfriend Who Has Joint Custody] to keep [Aggressive Woof] with him more if needed, but I need to contact him and arrange that as per his request. This time frame will insure that there are no mishaps because you will never have to bring people in without my assistance with the dogs. I don't feel I actually NEED her assistance.

I have explained to you the dangers of mishandling [Aggressive Woof], and you have stated that you understand. I realize you don't relate and possibly don't agree with the degree to which I need to protect him and the public from him. That is neither here nor there at this point, I am going to do what I need to do, and I would appreciate (and also require) your cooperation with this. I will help in any way that I can with your scheduling needs if things are handled in this manner.

Because all of this has been explained to you (and you can find, written in the contract that dog training protocols are decided by me solely) if for any reason you bring someone in without giving me ample notice so that I can remove [Aggressive Woof] or at least monitor him, any injuries incurred by people you bring in (or you, personally) will be your responsibility. I always assumed that any injuries to me, or my people, would be my responsibility, unless Wooffers gave some sort of attack command. Also, the only "dog training protocol" she has ever told me is simply "ignore them, complete with turning your back on the woofs" so it doesn't take a Master Communicator to explain that to anyone I have coming over. I am an elitest bitch and only like smart people, so those are the only types of people I would be having over. Also, all my people are dog people, and know how to deal with dogs, and follow the rules different people have for different dogs. If for any reason [Aggressive Woof] or [Other Woof] incur any injuries as a result of bringing people without giving ample notice you will also be held responsible.

In the future I would also appreciate you letting your friends know that they are not welcome to confront me verbally or raise their voice in this house, no matter what their perception of me. Barrett, I'm letting you know these things. I have never raised my voice to you or called you names nor would I allow my friends to do so to you. What happened yesterday was frightening for me and I now feel unsafe in my own home. Why would she feel unsafe in her own home? Despite all these hoops she is laying out for me to jump through in order to have people over, I am confident that if I announced that Joe Blow was coming over tomorrow night, Wooffers would decide either that it was only 23 hours and 58 minutes notice I gave her, OR, that it is simply not a convenient time (for her) for me to entertain a guest. Also, if she feels her woofs are so prone to violence and yet they love her, then shouldn't she have felt perfectly safe yesterday with Barrett calling her an asshole? Barrett was the one who had no dogs backing her up.

My goal when entering in this with you was to be as honest and direct as I possibly as I could be. Why wasn't her goal to be a good roommate? What the hell do I care if a roommate lies and says "Those jeans look great on you" or "No, I don't mind; I love the smell of tuna fish in the morning? Maybe that's why this whole thing has gone poorly - her priorities are completely different from what I think they should be. I have done my best to do that in a kind way. If you disagree with that I would like to know. If it's easier to send an email to express those feelings, please feel free to use that as a tool. Regardless of how it affects this situation, I am always looking to improve my communication and treatment of others and appreciate the feedback. Right. Like I want to enter into a conversation about feelings and priorities with someone who is not shuffling with a full deck.

We can get through this last 3 weeks without a struggle. Please plan on contacting me via email should you need anything, I check it regularly and will get back to you asap.

Please let me know that you read/received/understand this email. A while back Wooffers sent me an email about something, and then sent a follow-up email stating that she requested a response from me, and that she could see when I had opened my email. First of all, if you can see that, then you don't need me to tell you I received this. Second of all, I use gmail. Anyone know if gmail lets people emailing from another email program lets people see when mail has been opened? This is not MS Outlook - I did not click a little box that said yes, send a receipt to the sender. Thank you for your cooperation.

Wooffers

Life Sucks

Mama Nabi totally hit the nail on the head the other day - working makes me happy. I like having a reason to get up and get dressed each morning. I like making my tiny contribution to society. I like having structure to my day. I like earning my money rather than collecting unemployment.

The two-week temp job has ended, and I am sad. This evening I went to look at an apartment in this same neighborhood. It's $985. It's at the top of five huge hills where no buses run. It's a room in an old lady's house. There's a kitchen smaller than my bedroom closet. It's not an apartment attached to a house. It's a bedroom in someone's home. A home that smells like an old woman.

Today I got an email from the City of San Francisco. I applied for a job with them several weeks ago. Apparently I am disqualified from the application process because of something I did not understand. I guess you have to be in a training program, or have taken a specific training, but I didn't, or haven't.

Wooffers had sent me an email earlier this week asking me to respond back that I agree, saying that on May 15th she'd given me 60 days notice. I didn't email her back. Yesterday, at my temp job, I met with a lawyer who does tenant advocacy. Three or four times he said, "I wouldn't pay her any more money."

That is what I walked out of our meeting understanding. That a lawyer advised me not to pay any more rent. Wooffers expects me to pay her $500 on May 29th, representing half a month's rent from June 1 - June 15th. Then my last month's rent that I gave her before I moved in would cover June 16th through July 15th.

When I got home from the temp job this afternoon Wooffers asked me to read my emails and respond. I went to look at the old lady room, and when I came back I told Wooffers that obviously she does not want me here, and obviously I don't want to be somewhere that I'm not wanted, so I want to leave as soon as possible. Which means if I can be out of here by June 15th, I will.

Wooffers reply was that as long as I give her 30 days notice that will be fine. She then told me that she wants me to move out because I do not follow her instructions with her precious woofs. This, even after she has gone out of her way to praise me for ignoring them routinely (which is what she told me to do when I come home), saying that most people can't repeatedly ignore dogs that rush to greet them.

What I understand is that Wooffers wants to tell me in great detail (that keeps changing) how much I suck, and then wants me to agree with her, and THEN on top of that, agree that she is generous to be putting up with me for as long as she is. The cherry on top is when Wooffers all but begs me to discuss my feelings about whatever issues she's raised, which of course I refuse to do, saying my feelings don't matter.

Wooffers, emphatically: But your feelings DO matter, to me.

Thing is, I don't give a shit what matters to her at this point. She wants me to care so much about her delicate emotional state, and that for a couple of days she was in her bedroom with her door closed, supposedly because of me. And I just don't. Wooffers wants me to agree how much she's gone out of her way for me, and I won't.

She has created a world where everything revolves around her. I refuse to revolve around her. The end of this month is two full years since I got laid off and stopped working for Tuna and Nice Partner. I can not sustain myself. I am totally fucking cracking. I can not both be out of work and not have a comfortable place to live.

I am a homebody. I like to putter around my house, reading books, playing online, rearranging my furniture. Right now I can not find my true lefty scissors from second grade. I can not reach anything on the top shelf of my closet. I can not find my favorite bowl. I am not comfortable here. I want to go home, but I have nowhere to go and no money to get there.

Edited to add: Wooffers has told me that it's best I keep my bathroom door closed at all times, because the woofs will otherwise go in and make a mess, eating the garbage and whatnot. I keep the door partially closed, but not completely. I have never even seen either woof so much as stick their nose in there. Also, don't bathrooms need to air out? There's no window that can be opened. Maybe I'm imagining things but I feel like it smells musty and moist. This bothers me. Just wanted to mention that since apparently this is an airing of the grievances.

Not the Discussion I Was Expecting

You guys know I'm a real bitch. You know how much I laugh at people when they trip. Or fall. Or both! You know that sometimes when I'm bored I amuse myself of thinking of past trips and falls seen days or weeks ago.

But I try to be a nice bitch, if there can be such a thing. I try to make sure that when I direct my bitchiness at someone it is deserved. Nothing makes you feel worse than giving an accidental bitching.

It was past 9pm when I finally sat down to dinner this evening. I was eating in my bedroom, because 9am was home and if I sit in front of the tv he has a habit of coming over and standing in front of me silently, waiting for me to acknowledge him. He then talks about whatever his issue is. I spend a lot of time with movies paused. It pisses me off.

Tonight, while eating dinner there was a knock on my door. I did not want to acknowledge 9am, because I am outrageously tired (I haven't been able to sleep during this heatwave) and stressed and, and, and. But I did the mature thing and went to say hi and see what 9am wanted to discuss this time.

Somewhat nervously, 9am asked if he has done something to hurt my feelings or offend me in some way, because if he has, he wants to fix it and apologize. He feels I've been angry at him.

This was my moment to tell him all the things he does that annoy me. How he leaves wet, used paper towels on the kitchen counters, that he never cleans out the toaster despite using it daily, that black dress socks don't go with white sneakers especially when you're going to work out at the gym. But the thing is, we're moving out in a week. I will not be here for the majority of that time. 9am is moving way out to the suburbs. The likelihood of ever seeing him again is quite small. So I decided there was no point. It doesn't matter that his moving out before the lease is up causes me problems. Why? Because he's not going to decide to stay due to that.

I told 9am that what I was about to say might not come out too sincerely because I've been rushing around so much today that my adrenaline was in overdrive. However. I have a lot going on right now and am very stressed, but I'm not angry with him. That we're both moving, and moving is stressful. That I'm going out of the country the weekend before my move. I could not stress the stress enough.

9am then confessed that normally he falls asleep five seconds after laying down, but the last few nights it's taken him hours, because he's been worried he did something wrong or offended me. I asked how long 9am has been feeling this way. "About a week," he admitted.

I felt awful. Spent a few minutes talking about how hard it is to find a replacement roommate to fill a spot on your lease when you have two weeks to do it (9am admitted to now understanding why those 30 days I kept bringing up were important). He seriously looked like a huge weight was off his shoulders. I asked 9am why he carried this around for so long, why he didn't say something sooner.

"I was scared it would be something awful, something too big to fix," he told me. We hugged, and I reiterated that we're cool, said he has to live his life for himself and that I totally understand that. Because he does, and I do. 9am told me that if there's anything he can do to help with all this to please let him know. In fact, he said it two or three times.

So I decided to toss it out there. "Think about if you want to help me move a week from this Saturday. You can let me know if you can do it next week, you don't have to give me an answer right now." 9am's eyes got wide. I think that was a little more than he was expecting, but he said okay to thinking about it. I won't be offended if he doesn't help.

The entire conversation was very weird. For some reason I thought 9am would be angry at ME, because I wouldn't sign the form he wanted that would take away his financial obligations here. Funny how things work.

Suddenly (I See) Susan

By now, you've all seen the Susan Boyle video. I have too. And I'm absolutely disgusted by it. By everything surrounding her. The only thing that doesn't disgust me is Susan herself. Once again, I am disappointed by society. Society, you have let me down once more.

Something really needs to change if we would look at someone, and decide, based on appearance, how well they might be able to do something that has absolutely NOTHING to do with appearance. Maybe we need to go back to the old days when we heard singers on the radio and didn't watch them on tv, so we would focus on their actual talent, rather than their fake tits and perky, Crest White Stripped smiles.

The only shocking thing to me about Susan Boyle is that she wasn't discovered years and years ago. Her looks should have absolutely nothing at all to do with her ability to be marketed for her voice. Quite frankly, if a marketing team said they were unable to market her due to her looks, I'd think they weren't very good at their jobs.

I hope Susan Boyle is able to use this show as a springboard for a singing career. Partially because she has a fabulous voice and it would be great if more people got to hear Susan, but also because I hope she will be a (visual) reminder that appearance is not everything. People are so much more than how they look. It's sad that society needs to be reminded of this fact.

My hope is that as people are reminded, they will stop being nice to stupid-yet-pretty girls who coast on their looks, and expect them to propel their lives.

Susan, your voice is beautiful. I thought you were beautiful. I hope you go far. If I bought music, I would totally buy anything you recorded.

Maybe I'm a Bitchy Jew

But I don't understand why the Obamas were having a Passover seder in the White House. They're not jewish. I heard that one of them has a relative who is a rabbi, but everything I've read on the O's seder fails to mention that rabbi hosting or attending.

Judiasm is a religion. A real one, with beliefs and everything. It's not a lifestyle to try on. It's not a club to join just because you like the uniform (or the food, in this case). My parents have hosted seders for years, and invited nonjews. There was the Italian couple whose husband worked with my dad. My mom packed up the extra hard boiled eggs and gave them to the wife as she was leaving, to use for Easter. In high school my Italian friend came to a seder. My brother's indian friend came to one. When I first moved out to San Francisco I hosted a Rosh Hashanah dinner and invited my Irish Catholic roommate.

So it's not that non-jews should be shunned from celebrating jewish holidays. It just strikes me as really fucking weird for a bunch of non-jews to get together to do something jewy. Yes, matzah ball soup is awesome, but you don't have to do a seder to eat some, you can just get it at the nearest kosher deli or make it yourself.

I'd be more impressed with the Obamas if they cut out the White House Easter Egg Hunt. But I won't hold my breath, since we all know separation of church and state doesn't really exist.