Quiet

Months ago, Trixie threw a cocktail party on a Friday night. She kept telling me she'd finish cleaning up from it soon, but soon didn't come until this weekend, when she packed and moved out. Yesterday she packed and moved out. Today she came back, supposedly to clean. I see no evidence of this alleged cleaning though.

Her bathtub is dirty. The cheese that got mashed into the carpet the night of the cocktail party is still there. Luckily, the carpets are being shampooed on Wednesday, so it will finally come out.

Last night when Trixie was packing, she unplugged her telephone, and it caused me to fall offline. I told her, and my phone that had been put away was promptly plugged in, but it didn't fix the problem. I called a friend who's a semi-computer geek to ask if she could suggest any quick fixes over the phone, and we began trouble-shooting.

Trixie arranged for Old Guy to come over and fix the problem, so my friend and I hung up. I was sitting on my bedroom floor reading when I heard Trixie asking Old Guy to come over as soon as he possibly could, so she wouldn't have to listen to my bitching anymore.

Bitching. Really? I absolutely agree that Trixie has the total right to take her phone. It's hers! But when you do something that, for whatever reason, causes someone else a problem, I think it's reasonable that you fix that problem.

Old Guy showed up, and two minutes later my internet connection was restored. When I asked him what had happened, he hesitated and Trixie blushed, and he brushed me off with, "Oh, a couple of wires were crossed." I thanked him for fixing the problem so quickly, and went back in my room.

Today when I saw Trixie on my way out, she just looked at me for a second, and then went back to her "cleaning" without saying anything. And when I came back, she was gone.

And now it's quiet. Of course I'm freaked out at the idea of having to pay the rent by myself. But for right now, the quiet is beautiful. And it's not just that it's quiet. It's the happy knowledge that at no point is somebody going to unlock the door and walk in. Nobody will decide to run the noisy dishwasher at midnight. Although I have said (and still maintain) that Trixie was the best roommate I've ever had, this experience has really solidified for me that the next time I move, it's going to be to a one-bedroom. This roommate shit is not for me. It's really, really not.

Happy Teaser

I have all these things I want to write about. Some are ideas I've had, some are things other people have asked me to write about, some are things that are going on in my life. I want to do a post that's a collection of cool stuff I've come across lately. But.

This morning I overslept by an hour and am still half asleep. So I can't be busting out with the intellect right now. And all the links to the cool things are on my laptop at home. So I can't link to cool things now.

This week has kicked my ass, for a variety of reasons I'm not up for sharing here. And by "this week" I really mean "the last six months, culminating in this week."

Therefore, instead of blogging about the stuff above, I'm going to go all California hippy-dippy on your asses, and be positive and light and happy, in the hopes that if you put it out there, it'll come back to you. I can't believe I just wrote that. AND, I can't believe I didn't even get the tiniest urge to roll my eyes while writing it.

Happy Things

I won a contest and got a prize this week. Thanks Michael!

I got invited to do something I really wanted to do. And even though I had to turn down the invitation, it felt good to be invited. I wonder then, if I really *would* feel honored just to be nominated...

The overweight pear-shaped secretary who sits next to me has an equally overweight and pear-shaped sister who is also a secretary and now they both work here. Wait, that's not a happy thing - I got side-tracked. The happy thing is that the overweight pear-shaped secretary who sits next to me has a bunch of bright red tulips on her desk. Flowers are stupid. They're a total waste of money, because you don't NEED them for anything. But they kind of do make me happy. (Please feel free to buy me flowers, but no vases - I have more than enough of those. In fact, would you like a vase? Really, I have many extras.)

Trixie moves out this weekend. This is bad, because now I have to pay over $3,000 on my own. However, Trixie has become difficult ever since she screwed me over, I called her on it, and she realized she couldn't get away with me not noticing her screwing me over. So I'm glad she's leaving. I am going to help her pack by taking all her things out of the kitchen drawers and cabinets, lest she take some of my things with her. Which has happened to me before. Anne from Nice, I'm thinking of you here.

My low is pretty far down (my mellow is very, very harshed), so please share your happy things.

From Now On, Once a Month

Shit really does roll downhill. In my family, everyone except me was allowed to yell at people. It's kind of funny - my mother used to tell me that respect had to be earned. Yet, she demanded all sorts of things, like that I never raise my tone to her, never point my finger at her when talking, because they were signs of disrespect.

I never yell at people. People I don't care about who piss me off? They're not worth the energy. People I care about? I always worry I'll take my yelling too far and they'll never talk to me again. I have so few people in my life I don't feel like I can afford to let one go. Supposedly you can win the battle but lose the war. So I hold back and force myself to see the situation from their point of view. I find a way to make it okay in my own head. So I walk around with all this anger inside me, and no way of getting it out of me.

My mother used to tell me to go punch my pillow when I was angry. And then she'd yell at me for rolling my eyes at her, and send me to my bedroom. As I'd trudge up the staircase, she'd call after me as a reminder, "Every stamp gets a spank!" She and my dad were allowed to hit me, yell at me, and punish me. Any time my brother and I got in an argument, our parents took his side. It was never my turn.

Trixie and I are having getting-along problems. I was raised to believe I was/am a social retard, and thus, when any getting-along problems arise, I always assume they're my fault.

But this Trixie issue was not my fault. I discussed it with two different friends, who don't know each other. They both thought she was being completely unreasonable.

So tonight when a straw broke the camel's back, this camel flipped the fuck out. I really went all out on Trixie. At one point I even told her not to be so stupid as to lie to me when I could easily verify what she was saying to see she wasn't telling the truth. Fingers were pointed, voices were raised, and you know something?

I have absolutely nothing to lose by pissing her off. Trixie's already moving out. We're not going to be friends and we don't travel in the same circles. So I didn't have to worry about not pissing her off too much (and I'm sure it helped that I was totally in the right).

Maybe that's why I screamed with all my heart and soul, why I didn't censor anything I said, and why our fight even ended with me simply interrupting her to say, "This is pointless. There's absolutely no reason to continue this discussion," and just walking away from her.

When I was a little girl, I saw a scene in a movie where a woman was screaming at somebody wholeheartedly while throwing dishes. Ever since I've wanted to throw dishes and break them.

I didn't throw anything tonight, but everything I've been thinking came out, and it felt damn good. She truly deserved it, which is probably why she blushed each time I made another point. And why a few minutes after I walked away, Trixie came knocking on my door to talk to me, to try to smooth things over.

I never yell at people. But tonight changed all that. It felt really good to yell at someone who'd wronged me and be sure that I was not the one who'd wronged, who'd done anything to deserve being wronged, etc. I didn't have to hold myself back for the first time in my life.

Who do other people yell at? How often do you really scream at people? From now on, I'm totally going to do this once a month!

It Really IS a Merry Christmas!

My COBRA payments have been killing me at $592 per month. I managed to fill out a form and get it in on time to switch from the PPO to the HMO, and today I am mailing out my January COBRA payment. Cost?

$347.82 baby!

Whoo hoo! Now all I need is a job offer and a new roommate and I'll actually exhale.

Stressful Day, Anyone?

Today I went to work, where it's now been five weeks I've been temping, and they've still said nothing to me about becoming permanent.

While at work, I saw window-washers fall from their scaffolding and watched them dangling against a high-rise.

On my lunch hour I went to an interview that went well, where the founding partner implied she'd like to hire me, but didn't give any indication of what her salary range is.

In the afternoon I had to listen to people talk about tomorrow's holiday party, which I initially said I'd go to, thinking it'd be a good thing in my quest to become permanent. However, there'll be an open bar and I hate parties passionately, and have tons of shit to get done and wish I hadn't said I'd go. So my new plan is to show up and leave an hour later.

Then I dragged myself home through the rain to a cold, dark and messy apartment. Trixie and I have been talking about what to do about our living situation for the last month.

Two or three weeks ago Trixie talked to her father about buying a two-bedroom place in the city. Essentially, the thought was that we'd move there, and Trixie would be my landlord. Except, Trixie's dad said she couldn't afford to buy. She wanted to stay here for another six months. I was the one saying we should move somewhere cheaper, and Trixie was telling me she didn't want to move, she's had enough change in her life over the last year. Case closed, or so I thought.

Rent is going up here - it'll be over $3,000. I pay almost $600 for COBRA. My job situation is unstable, to say the least. If this continues, I'm in a world of financial trouble. Tonight Trixie tells me that she spoke with a loan advisor yesterday who said that she could afford a one-bedroom but not a two-bedroom. Trixie's considering it, but has decided she wants to "try" living on her own to make sure she likes it okay before investing in a one-bedroom.

Right. So that means Trixie may move out soon. We have to let the leasing office know on December 15th if we're staying here or moving. I can't really afford this rent increase (because of COBRA), but also can't afford to move. So I have to stay, and just learn to be satisfied eating a carrot for dinner every night. Hey, I wanted to lose weight anyway, right?

Tonight Trixie is putting up an ad for a new roommate - to replace herself here, in case she decides to try renting a one-bedroom. She's told me she'll decide by Sunday whether or not she wants to stay here another six months, and if she wants to stay after all, she'll just tell people the spot's been filled.

I am not accepting any more stress. Tomorrow I am going to the stupid holiday party for lunch, and leaving immediately after the lunch portion, not staying for the rest of the afternoon. It's not like I get paid for that time anyway.

Then I am going to come home and close my eyes and hope that when I open them, a magical fairy will have cleaned the apartment, and fixed all my problems for me. Happy fucking Hanukah.

Dear Trixie

One of the hardest things any lawyer has ever made me do is to call clients and tell them to pay their fucking bills. My very first lawyer-boss had me do this when I was just 21. I still lived with my parents, and had no idea how to order someone twice my age to do something.

So I learned what I like to call constructive lying. As a little kid, I was a bit of a lie-aholic and that's probably why my parents were very black and white about lying. We didn't do white lies in our family. And I grew up thinking all lying was terrible, deserving of death.

But it's not. Lying is fucking awesome. I think it's the Japanese who are very big into saving face. Their own and other people's. I'm all for that too - I think it's much more cruel to humiliate someone than to punch them.

The system I developed in calling to collect money was to pretend that we, my boss and I, were idiots. "Hi Dr. Weinstein, this is Green, calling from Rosa Berg's office (yes, she really did have a traditionally spanish first name and a jewish last name), how are you? Oh. Mr. Weinstein sent his bimbo to pick your girls up yesterday? Yes, I'm aware he's not supposed to do that, no you're right - it IS terrible. I'll make sure to mention that to Rosa for you. Actually though, I was calling about the last invoice we sent you? We're reorganizing our filing and seem to have misplaces the list that shows your latest payment for the October bill - could you tell me what number check that is?"

Or I'd say we had recently gotten a new mail carrier and didn't think we were receiving all our mail - what date did they mail out the check. Any variation of the above. Eight times out of ten they'd tell me a check would be in tomorrow's mail, and two days later I'd have a check to show Rosa. One time out of ten someone would try to say they weren't paying their bill because the judge hadn't ordered the outcome they'd wanted. "Jimmy, you hired Rosa to represent you in Court - she can't control the Judge. She told you that since your wife had pictures of all the marital furniture you destroyed, which you admitted doing, it was likely the Judge wouldn't give you overnight visits with your son."

Anyway, I discovered I could use this lying thing in all sorts of situations. I use it when people aren't answering my question - I pretend I'm too stupid to understand so they'll answer me again, hopefully answering what I actually asked the second time.

A couple of days ago, I used this approach on Trixie. She's gotten lax in her cleaning lately. Like the last several months. A while ago she had a cocktail party and then put all the extras under the dining room table, telling me she'd get rid of it that weekend. She put the leftover liquor in the cabinets, actually taking out a soup pot of mine to make room for it, saying her friend was having a party soon and she'd pass the liquor on to the friend. Yeah, that was over a MONTH ago.

There's still shit under our dining room table, and my soup pot is still on the counter. I am my father's daughter, and I like for things to be put away. At least, things that belong in the kitchen.

I tried to ask Trixie what was going on with this stuff a couple of weeks ago, and she swore she was getting it out of our apartment soon. Nothing's happened. So a couple of days ago I told Trixie that I was overwhelmed by my mess and it would really help me if she could shame me into being neater by being uber neat herself.

Then I quietly reminded her of my neatness goal by cleaning the kitchen floor last night. Tonight I cleaned off the coffee table.

I am overwhelmed by presents I need to send out as soon as I can take a cab to the post office (damn big boxes!), my retarded job that hasn't hired me permanently yet, forcing me to continue making $600 COBRA payments each month, my increase in rent that's coming in January, and life in general. It would be nice if I could come home to a clean fucking house and an uncluttered kitchen.

Hey, and it'd also be nice if certain people paid their rent on time. Trixie is going to lose her Best Roommate Ever Crown if she keeps this up.

Jew Cool

Trixie has been dating/fighting with a guy we refer to as Old Guy for at least half a year now. We all hate him. Literally every single one of Trixie's friends can't stand him. So we were all thrilled when Trix announced that a kid, a 26 year-old at her law firm, had asked her out. Trixie is a couple of years older than me, and thought the idea of dating someone so much younger was crazy, and she couldn't do it. No way. He's seven years her junior.

Old Guy is ten years her senior. I say, as long as he's out of school and has some time under his belt of working in the real world, the actual physical age tends not to matter. Despite saying she couldn't date him, Trixie kept talking about The Kid. "He's half Jewish, half Indian - he's our apartment!" "He's from New York - you'll like him!" Great, so I'll date him.

Finally Trixie started dating The Kid, and I got to meet him on Friday. Yes, that'd be right after bar results came out. He passed the bar. Yet another baby attorney is on his way to becoming official (he has to be sworn in ). After I congratulated him, I asked if he'd been nervous, waiting for the results.

Modestly, he shrugged and grinned. Cocky chap, ain't he?

Congratulations to all the baby attorneys who just found out they passed the bar. You can breathe now.

Monday, Monday

After a somewhat dramatic weekend (for me), I'm trying to mentally prepare for work tomorrow. The receptionist is weird. We'll call her Apple. Apple used to work as a clerk in the courts and thinks she knows everything. She and I seem to be in a slight power struggle. Apple started working there not quite two weeks before I did. She might be somewhere around my age (it's hard to tell), and dresses in ankle-length flowy dresses and scarves with pom-poms on them.

Any time I ask Apple something, after telling me, she'll e-mail me the answer while cc-ing the office manager and her assistant. So I'll ask what time the mail goes out, Apple will tell me 4:45 p.m., and then e-mail me the same information. WEIRD. One of these days I might get tempted to respond snarkily.

Tomorrow Trixie starts her new job, after taking a month off. She's very nervous, and only added to her own nervousness by deciding to throw a cocktail party on Friday night. We wound up in a slight ... fight isn't the right word, but feelings were hurt and people were tiptoed around.

After a few notes taped to doors and a quick conversation tonight, Trixie and I are back to happily playing volleyball among vases in the living room.

Roommate Karma

Remember the Steamroller? And how she had her boyfriend over all the time? And then her parents came for a month? And, and, and? Remember?

Yeah well Trixie's no Steamroller. Three weeks ago she asked if I minded if she threw a cocktail party. On Monday she said that since people would probably be in our house until 1 a.m., and I'd probably be tired after my first full week of work, perhaps those people might annoy me.

So if I'd like, she'd be happy to put me up at a hotel Friday night. That's right. My roommate offered to send me to a hotel for the night so her partying friends don't disturb me.

Like Having a Kid Going Off To Camp, Except Not At All

A little over two weeks ago, Trixie set off for a trip to South America. Before she went, I knew what organization she was going with (she was volunteering for a week before meeting up with her parents for the second week), and even did a few runs to check my shower curtain map (that thing is fucking priceless!) during our conversations as we talked about Chile, Brazil, etc.

Late last week I got an e-mail from Trixie that she was at the airport, heading home, and I replied. Since she was traveling with her parents back to the States, I assumed she'd stay at their house for a day or two. Trixie has yet to do laundry here, and instead chooses to bring it to her parent's house (where it's free). So it made sense that she'd stay at their place, catching up on laundry and mail.

I have not seen or heard from her since. Normally, we just yell "Bye!" to each other as we head out in the mornings if the other is in the common areas. If we'll be spending the night away from home, we let the other one know.

Since I've placed Trixie's mail in a pile at her bedroom door, I know she hasn't come home and gone back out while I was out, because she would have picked it up. Plus we take our shoes off when we come home and the only shoes near the front door are mine. She hasn't come back yet at all. I am wondering at what point I should worry. Because I'm already mildly worried.

Twice since moving in, Trixie mentioned to me that we should exchange phone numbers for close family members in case anything happened to us. We never did it, and if Trixie got separated from her parents on their trip, I have no way of getting in touch with them. There are 65 possibilities for people with her last name who live in the town her parents live in (the mountain).

I'm sending Trixie an e-mail tonight, asking her if she's okay. I hope she is, and to get a response soon. As much as it's fun having the place to myself, I miss Trixie, and can't enjoy my solitude while worrying about her.

So Little Time, So Much To Bitch About and Share

1. E-mails - to everyone I send e-mails to, I'm sorry. There's something wrong with my e-mail program that causes a question mark to be inserted at the end of every sentence. Remember on Party of Five when Charlie went to a parent-teacher conference at Owen's school and he accidentally made fun of the teacher who claimed she had "upspeak"? Yeah, I don't have that. I'm really not that indecisive.

2. (Not) Dancing With the Stars - no shock that Josie went home. But can we just discuss how much I hate fluff shows like tonight's was? Just bang out the results in the first segment, break for commercial, and then just bring out Dolly Parton's boobs and Savion Glover for the rest of the show. Stop talking so fucking much! NOBODY cares what that dork is talking about!

3. Customer Service - I'm a huge fan of good customer service. Let's talk about the good and bad customer service I've received this week.
3a. Burke Williams Spa - I decided yesterday that I "needed" to get my eyebrows waxed and it was the first place I thought of to try, not having any personal waxing experience in this city. You should go, you should ask for Robin. She just moved here from LA, and was great. And not only because she gave me a slew of free samples to shove in my pocket.

3b. Whole Paycheck - Though I am not a foodie, there are specific foods I like better than others, and DeBoles spinach fettucini is one of them. Whole Foods will order it by the box for me, and sell it wholesale. Me likey. The other day I went to pick up my box of pasta, and the guy told me there'd been a terrible accident. Somebody opened up the box they were holding for me and SOLD one of the boxes of pasta! He told me to go pick out any pasta off the shelf that I wanted, they'd give me that for free, and still sell me my big box of pasta wholesale.

3c - Safeway Delivery - they were scheduled to arrive last night between 7 and 9 p.m. At 8:41 p.m. I called Safeway to ask when I should expect the dude to arrive. They told me to call them if he didn't arrive before 9 p.m. I asked how that would work since they close then too. The guy gave a big sigh, saying, "I suppose I *could* call the driver on his phone..." to which I replied, "Thanks! I'll hold!" He came back saying the driver was running late and would be arriving between 10 and 10:30 p.m. That pissed me off. I'd specifically not started dinner because I didn't want to have food all over the counters when the delivery guy arrived. So I asked when somebody was planning to tell me the driver would be arriving late. Dude on the phone didn't know. The driver arrived at 9:22 p.m., and never apologized for being late. Despite my anger, I did tell the driver to be careful of the stove, which was hot, as by that point I was cooking dinner.

4. Loose Earlobe Lady - yeah I know, you thought there'd be no more LEL stories. SURPRISE! I was at an interview the other day, and the HR woman looked at the last firm I worked at, and told me she'd interviewed Loose from my firm, did I know her? Why yes, in fact we sat next to each other. Say Green, why did you leave Last Firm? Because they moved my department to the East Bay and I live in the city and didn't want to commute so far. Ohh, that makes sense. So does Loose live in the city also? Nope, she lives in the East Bay. Was her last day the same as your last day? No, she left about three weeks or a month before I did. I just left it there. If I said anything else it'd have been rude. I had a second interview with the firm today, and the attorney liked me a lot, but wants to interview more people. In telling a friend about it, I confessed to being worried. "What if he interviews someone else and finds someone better than me to hire?" Her response was perfect. "He won't. Look who's out there - Loose Earlobe!"

5. Bank of America - Trixie is away on a long trip (party at my house!) and left me the rent check for October before she went. She forgot to sign it. I brought it to the bank today, and the guy deposited it without blinking or saying a word to me. That SUCKS. To know my bank is that lax in their procedures? Horrible! Bank of America, for SHAME!

As annoying as all this is, I realize it could be worse. How's your customer service been lately?

Nicest Roommates EVER

Trixie: Is my music interfering with your tv-watching?
Me: No. Is my tv-watching interfering with your music-listening?
Trixie: No.
Me: We're the most considerate roommates ever!
Trixie, who was crouching on the floor looking through her shoe-closet-thingie kept in the living room, falls over laughing.

Listen to Firsts

For a variety of reasons, there are a lot of basic things most people have done that I haven't. One of those is going to concerts. Today I went to the last Stern Grove concert of the summer. True, when I was four years old I went with my parents to a Smothers Brothers concert, but I think we all know that doesn't count.

For those not in the know, Stern Grove is this huge wooded area (that reminded me of Usdan, complete with gigantic hills) where free concerts are held each Sunday in the summertime. Until an annoucement was made, I was not in the know that Stern Grove is 100% smoke free.

Last week Trixie and I had a talk about doing more fun things in the Bay Area. We have this talk about once a month. A couple of years ago I was determined to experience San Francisco more than I'd ever experienced South Florida. That holds true now too. We tossed around the idea of going to the Jelly Belly factory, but nixed it for Stern Grove.

The concert started at 2 p.m., and we arrived a little after 1 p.m., armed with an old sheet to sit on, magazines, and bottled water. Trixie also brought a sandwich, but I did not - she'd said something about a picnic, but the concept is so foreign to me, as I've only been on one picnic in the last twenty years, that I couldn't think of what was picnic food. Of course as we walked through the crowds of people and I saw what they'd brought, I understood about the food, but it was too late by then.

We set up "camp" near a log, and the girl sitting next to us had the same sneakers as me. We were on a steep incline, and there was loose sand all over, which prompted me to whisper to Trixie that I bet a lot of people would fall walking around. "I'll keep an eye out for ya," she replied.

I took a few pictures, read my magazines and listened to fancy yet free music. We traded food with the people sitting next to us (no Mom, I didn't eat food from strangers). We yelled to a volunteer to stop when a little girl was running after him with a dollar to donate. We did not get sunburns (yay for shade). Oh, and I was right about people falling - we held our hands out at least half a dozen times each to people walking in front of us who started to slide down the sandy hill.

Welcome Back, Welcome Back, Welcome Back!

Growing up, one of the many rules Golden Boy and I had to adhere to was the no-playing-ball-in-the-house one. That's a hard rule for two active kids, especially kids whose mother made them ask permission to go outside in the backyard. And kids whose mother was a stickler for things like saying "Can I go to the park to play basketball? It's 4:15 now, and I'll come home by 4:30." We didn't have the kind of household where a kid runs out of the house yelling over their shoulder that they're going to the park, and it's understood they'll be home for dinner.

This didn't stop us from playing ball in the house all the time. Once, my parents went away on a business trip, only to return to find a broken back door. Whoops. Another time, my mom was in the front yard talking with a neighbor while Golden Boy and I played with a stuffed soccer ball in the upstairs hallway. Tons of fun, until I decided to turn around and throw my brother the ball, over my head. Because instead of throwing the ball out, I threw it up, directly into the hall light, which broke and came crashing down.

Trixie has just returned from a cross-country trip, helping her friend move from the Bay Area to D.C. for a job. It's so nice to have her back, and not only because she has geeky friends who fix things we're too girly to fix.

I loved having the place to myself for a week, if only to feel secure in knowing that when I got home I was home, and didn't still have to be on until I got safely into my bedroom. And don't get me wrong - Trixie is not a difficult person to talk with at all. It's just that sometimes, I don't have any talk left in me. Trixie's the type of person though, who will talk if someone's there to talk with (the mountain).

Trixie's mom picked her up at the airport yesterday, and then went back to her childhood home for lunch before coming here. When Trixie walked in the door struggling with bags, I jumped up to help, asking if she'd gone shopping. Trixie laughed.

See, my idea of going shopping is using Safeway, Whole Paycheck or Trader Joe's. Trixie's idea of going shopping is helping herself to whatever food in her parent's house looks good. She swears her parents don't mind. I swear her parents are good at picking out fruit.

Last night Trixie and I played catch in the living room, among vases and laptops and glass breakables, catching each other up on our respective weeks. We didn't break anything.

How I Came To Be Eating Cake

Normally there's no cake in my house. There's a Mrs. Smith's apple crumb cake in the freezer in case there's any company-related surprise incident, but I don't count that. Because it's for guests.

Today sucked. I didn't get a job that I went on a THIRD interview for on Tuesday. Granted, I walked out of the interview feeling like the attorney didn't like me and I even SAID I didn't think he'd want to hire me. But today that was confirmed, and I'm bummed.

I found that out after leaving a hellish interview that came about in a weird way. When I deal with recruiters, I'm very aware of all the player's roles in the game. Their clients are the law firms. I am a tool they use to make their clients happy. I know this, and am okay with this. Since recruiters want me to get the job (so they'll get a percentage of whatever salary the law firm will pay me), they normally set me up to do as well as possible at interviews.

They send me to the law firm's website, give me the name of the attorney I'll be interviewing with, etc. I walk in prepared.

This morning at 10 a.m., a recruiter called to say she had almost no information but a firm wanted her to fax resumes in the morning and set up interviews for the afternoon. Decent recruiters will NEVER send a resume until I've said yes, I'm interested in that law firm. I didn't have enough information to know whether or not I was interested, so I said sure.

At 1 p.m., the recruiter called to say the law firm wanted to interview me at 4 p.m. Okay that just shot my whole day to hell. At 3:50 p.m., I was in the elevator and on the way to the office.

When I got there, the receptionist showed me to a conference room and handed me an application to fill out. She walked away, I flipped the application to the first page, and ... read all about the applicant who had already filled out that application. The receptionist and I got that sorted out, and right after I started filling in all the same fucking crap that's on my mother fucking resume that they had TWO copies of, Person Number One came in to interview me.

She was the attorney I'd be working for. She was bubbly and friendly and had a loud laugh (that I tried to not cringe at) and I liked her instantly. We clicked, we could work well together, I could tell. Sign me up.

Then Person Number Two came in to talk with me. Person Number Two is actually Person Number One's current secretary, who will be going to work in a different location at the same firm on Monday. I was the third interview they were doing this afternoon, and Person Number Two was over it. She was polite, but slightly distant. Fine.

Then Person Number Three came in to interview me. She was H.R. for the firm, and works out of a different office normally. She hated me on site. No really, I'm sure of it. Totally sure of it. We talked, she nodded, we talked, she asked more questions, I smiled, answered more questions, and had I been bleeding she'd just have looked at me and said, "You'd BETTER not get any blood on my white pin-striped suit, bitch!" because that's just how much she hated me.

What with all these people interviewing me, I hadn't finished the application, so Person Number Three said I should just finish it up and then leave. I finished, but the receptionist had already left for the day. I didn't see anyone around. At all. So I left it on the receptionist's desk and walked out.

When I got home, the muscles in my back were spasming horridly. Turns out I was sitting in an awkward position at the interview. For too long. And of course, because I'm a good girl whose mother taught her right, you know I was sitting up straight at the interview. For an hour and ten minutes.

It was on the way home that I found out the job I wanted is not going to be mine. Oh, and I couldn't find a cab and had to walk all the way home, in heels.

And that's why after dinner I felt a need for cake. Sweet Trixie offered me some Vicodin, but after thanking her, I declined. Advil should be able to fix this. It better.

I Wanna GOOOOOOOOO!

The last few days have been a bit crazy. One of those days within a week would have been fine, but each one right after the other? A bit too much for this introvert. Trixie had a crazy weekend also. On Thursday I started preparing for Friday. On Friday, it started, and I was so busy that I forgot to eat lunch. My stomach reminded me of that around dinnertime.

On Saturday, I had several people over for brunch. Afterwards, I had to lay down and nap for an hour and a half.

Sunday morning, I was hosting two people in town for the weekend and meeting up with a friend. By the time I got home Sunday evening, I should have put a stop to it. But the machine was already in motion, and I didn't realize that I wasn't recharging, but instead just charging on to the next thing I had planned. Sunday night came and went, and I forgot to eat dinner.

Monday I had an interview, which went horribly wrong (it was basically a waste, and I will probably have to go back to do what should have happened yesterday). Then, in response to things that happened Sunday, I had important errands to run. Initially I thought 4 p.m. was my deadline, and made it a point to be finished by 3:30 p.m., only to find out I had more than two extra hours.

By the time I got home last night, and everyone was returned to their proper homes, I was exhausted. Mentally and physically. So when Trixie wandered by my door and asked how my interview went, I gave her a one-word answer.

Trixie and I have discussed her extroversion and my introversion. She was married to an introvert, and tries to be aware and respectful of the need for quiet and space. But Trixie had a lot of big thoughts this weekend while she was at a family wedding, and wanted to share them with me. Leaning against my doorway nodding to her, I noticed my mind screaming at her that "I want to go! Stop! Talking! I wanna gooooooooo!"

I finally found a way to tell Trixie how exhausted I was from all the socializing, despite it being with people I like and love, despite it being all my choice. Trying to be helpful, Trixie spent the next 15 minutes reminding me that she's out of town for most of the week, so I'll have the place to myself. Wrap it up, girlie. I've got solitude to enjoy here.

Before 10:30 p.m. I was asleep.

Please Somehow Rescue Me From Entrances

Why is it that if I'm in my bedroom when my roommate comes home with friends/cousins/ random homeless chrackheads she met on the street, I feel stuck in my room until they leave again?

There are people who believe in making an entrance, in always arriving late. Walking into a crowded room, stopping to strike a pose, etc. They love the attention. I'm not one of those people. To me, arriving late is just rude. Less rude when it's a party rather than just one person who's waiting for you, but still.

I'm not a fan of the Attention. I just want to putter around, doing my thing. Four magazines are in the living room. A movie is on the coffee table waiting to be watched. Hopefully they'll leave for dinner soon.

I Think Pranks Are Funny

On Friday Trixie and I were talking about radio stations as we sped to Ikea (where I finally bought furniture for the balcony! Umm... can somebody come over and help me put it together?). I told her that the choice of good radio stations is much better in New York than here and in Florida. That made me realize that I could be listening to Z100 even while living in San Francisco. Pretty cool, huh?

In general, I hate radio talk shows. If I want to hear people talk, I'll ask my friends questions. To me, radios are for music. Period. Okay, and pranks. I love when they do pranks. Have for years.

Many moons ago, back when I lived in New York (and by 'in New York' I mean 'still lived with my parents') I had a hard time with the whole "banking" thing. I think it was fear-based, and I'd get very flustered every time I had to do anything bank-related. Something about those tellers, with fake flowers in their lapels apparently intimidated me. The little deposit slip confused me, and I could never get the right number in the correct box (I can now, but I have to write from right to left to do it; fucking learning disabilities).

One night in the kitchen my dad confessed that he'd considered calling the radio station to have them do a prank on me - they'd call pretending they were my bank, I'd screwed up and now owed them money. He told me that he ultimately thought I might cry, and that's why he didn't do it. The funny thing was, I probably would have told them I'd need to call them back, hung up, and called my dad crying. In case you're worrying about that check I recently gave you, I haven't bounced a check in over eight years.

All this is a roundabout way of showing you the Pink Prank Project that I stumbled across this morning. Funny shit. This morning Golden Boy e-mailed me, asking if I can walk the dog for him. I have a key to his apartment. Hmmm...

This Doesn't Mean I Have to Wear Sensible Shoes Though, Right?

Trixie freaked out on Sunday. Her mother had taken it upon herself to invite their relatives over to OUR place, and then simply called Trixie to inform her of the impending company. Not only was Trixie not pleased, Trixie was not prepared. Her bedroom looked like a bomb went off in it. So a Major Freakout commenced.

An hour before the company was supposed to arrive, I wandered over to Trixie's room to see how she was doing. Didn't even have to ask. She was clearly doing terribly. I spend about five minutes every day cleaning my room, because that's easier for me than a huge cleaning once a week. Plus I feel calmer in a clean bedroom. Trixie does not share my logic.

I asked if she wanted to switch rooms for the afternoon, and pass my bedroom off as hers. Poor girl almost burst into tears as she thanked me and explained that she was just so overwhelmed by everything. There were clean clothes mixed with dirty clothes all over the floor. The floor had random coins and papers on it.

Smoothing out Trixie's blanket, I told her to put all the clean clothes on her bed. As she did that, I put them in piles in her closet shelves. After running to the kitchen for garbage bags, we shoved all the dirty clothes into the bags, and the bags into Trixie's closets and under the bed. We opened the blinds, sprayed a tiny bit of Lysol, and opened the balcony door.

Nine minutes after I walked out of her bedroom, Trixie's relatives were calling to say they were parking and would be right up. After they'd left, Trixie talked about how angry she was at her mother for dumping the relatives on her. Of course, Trixie's mom thinks her daughter's bedroom is clean all the time, but that's not the full reason for the anger. Trixie and I started talking about how when our friends are coming over, it's not such a big deal if the bedroom is messy, or dishes are in the sink. "Our friends are just ... friends. But my aunt and uncle ... they're like REAL grownups!"

Yeah. We're fake grownups. Who do scarily real grownup things. When I was a kid I truly thought I would wind up in prison as an adult. Not for killing people or anything, but because I wouldn't know how to do mysterious and difficult paperwork I was convinced adults have to do and I'd be breaking the law.

Nevermind that I learned how to do my taxes when I was 17. I was convinced. And I'm always surprised when other people treat me like a competent adult. They ask or offer me things, and although I always say yes, am thinking, "Don't you want a real grownup for that?" Apparently they think I am one.

People have:

- Given me their extra set of keys to their home
- Asked me to take care of their pet overnight
- Made me their ICE person
- Asked me to be the emergency contact at their child's preschool
- Trusted me to handle issues where millions of dollars are at stake

Even the idea that I am friends with people who have mortgages and marriages is mind-blowing. Who am I, and when did I stop being the person who danced around her bedroom for an hour each morning when she was supposed to be getting dressed for the day? Oh yeah - Mom, sorry I stressed you out with running late each morning - that's what I was really doing when I said I was "getting dressed."

How's Your Sunday Night Going?

For years now, I've been in this habit of changing into my pajamas as soon as I know I'm not going anywhere else that night. That's why a little before 9 p.m. tonight, I was already wearing what I'd be wearing to sleep.

People smoke in the hallways here. Trixie and I don't like it. I say if people are going to smoke, they should smoke on their balconies, since everyone has one. That's why when I emptied the garbage tonight and smelled smoke, it barely registered in my brain.

When I was reading and heard a fire alarm going off, I thought it was another building and just went to look out my window. Since there was no smoke, no fire, no people streaming out of any buildings, I went back to my book.

I always feel silly about things like this (clearly spoken by somebody never trapped in a burning building). Like if I actually evacuate, anyone who knows will tell me I overreacted, everyone else knew it was a false alarm. But it's not like I was on the phone with the president. I was reading a freaking book. Nothing that couldn't wait.

I realized I should make sure that you know, my building wasn't on fire. You'd think I had fire drills all my life or something the way I held my hand near the door to feel for heat before grabbing the doorknob. When I opened the door to my apartment, it was immediately clear the fire alarm was going off in my building, not in a nearby one.

The strobes were flashing, the noise was so loud it felt like it was going through my body. I closed the door, and turned to my kitchen, where I looked at the knobs on the oven. It would be so embarrassing if the cause of the alarms was because I'd forgotten to turn off the stove! Didn't occur to me that I hadn't used the stove or oven today at all.

Then I went into my bedroom, grabbed a nearby sweatshirt, my cell phone, keys, and wallet, shoved my feet into flipflops, and left, locking the door behind me. I hate loud noises - they unsettle me and I paused in the hallway to figure out where the stairs are. Here's the weird thing: I didn't LOOK IN THE HALLWAY to find the stairs. I kind of ... looked inside my head, to think about it. I have a photographic memory for pictures, for anything that's not words, and I was looking at my hallway within my head. Weird. But it works for me, and I turned towards the door for the stairs.

I hate empty stairwells. They're so creepy. I had to go through three different doors to get to the actual staircases, and I worried about being locked in a hallway while there was a fire. I'm a worrier - none of the doors were locked. As soon as I saw the stairs, I could hear people above me coming down, and a guy walked right past me on his way down.

Carefully I walked down seven flights of stairs, listening to the sound of the people (and a dog) also making their way to the ground. We got outside, and I saw a group of neighbors standing on the sidewalk looking up at the building they'd just evacuated. After I crossed the street, I looked up to see what they were looking at. Nothing.

I called my brother to tell him what was going on. He told me to come on over if I needed to. I called Trixie to find out where she was. Far away, having dinner with her dad.

More and more people were streaming outside. I hoped the people with the dog would come near me, but they didn't, instead deciding to take the dog for a walk. Gazing up at my building, there was no smoke, no flames. However I did see people standing on their balcony.

Okay, why? Please explain this to me. Why when there's a threat of a fire, would you not leave your RENTED apartment? I understand that during Katrina some of the people in Louisiana didn't leave their houses because it was THEIR HOUSE, and while I disagree, I do understand. But these are RENTALS. Say you're not from this country - you're from some country where they don't do fire alarms. But if you heard a weird noise, smelled smoke, and then saw people from your building standing across the street, and could hear sirens coming closer and closer, wouldn't you make the guess that you should leave? Just in case? Am I being presumptuous here? I ask that honestly, because I've never been to another country, and have a hard time imagining how hard it would be to be out of my element.

At this point the cold is seeping in, and I zippered up my sweatshirt. I looked down, and realized I was standing in the street wearing capri pajama pants with tiny roses on them. Lovely.

After a while, the fire alarm stopped going off. Ahhhh! I saw a fireman propping the door to my building open, and crossed the street to go inside. A little boy holding what I presume are his favorite stuffed animals stepped on my foot in his hurry to beat his older brother inside. He shouldn't have bothered - the brother dropped his stuffed dolphin in the middle of the street and had gone back for it.

The four firemen (one of whom was holding an axe) crowded around the door, talking with our security guy. Eventually they turned to us. We'll have to take the stairs back up - nobody has the key to re-set the elevators. Fine by me. A girl on her cell phone was not pleased to hear about the elevators, and stormed off in a huff.

No clue what started the fire, which apartment it was, or any other details. What did you do tonight?