The Death of it all

At the end of January, GQ laid me off. I did not take it well. I told one friend and then couldn't even tell anyone else. I'm still not over my PTSD from being out of work during the recession (quick recap: it lasted almost 4 years, I had to go on food stamps, was a month away from eviction proceedings starting when Turkey called), and had just begun relaxing after getting away from Turkey.

All I hear in my head is me screaming at the top of my lungs, "AGAIN?! REALLY?!" over and over. I have a very strong reference letter from Turkey (which I drafted myself) and another one from GQ. GQ's is more emphatic in how great I was, but because I didn't write it for him, it's not well written (I don't mean that to be obnoxious - there are typos).

GQ and I have not kept in touch. I did not delete him from my LinkedIn people, but after sorting out signing the severance agreement for a severance check we haven't spoken at all. I do not follow him on Twitter. I may have stalked him on Facebook for a couple of months. It really hurt to see him keep going on trip after trip. "Sorry Green, I can't afford to keep paying you, because my boyfriend and I want to go to Hawaii. And Mexico. And New York."

I have this cousin who adopts cats, and one after another they die. I'm sure he is taking care of the cats and it's just very bad luck that cat after cat kicks the bucket. But if I had a cat I would sure never ask him to pet-sit for me, you know? And even though I was laid off at my last two jobs through absolutely no fault of my own, I sure wouldn't hire me. Somehow, bad job luck seems to follow me. I'm completely mortified about it. I feel like I'm always out of work.

When my brother married Crazy Girl I was out of work, and although I was genuinely happy for them and they threw a beautiful wedding, it was very difficult for me to attend because I was at a very low point in my life and I had quite a difficult time holding my head high. Once, when my aunt heard I was out of work, she loudly said, "Again?!" and I think that's what I hear constantly in my head. Golden Boy was very kind and when I talked to him about not having money for a wedding present, he waved me off. "Just get us a 5th year anniversary present instead!"

Yeah, their five year anniversary was this April. Two and a half months after I got laid off. Anyway. Now you know why I haven't been writing. I can barely get out of the house each week for my two volunteer gigs (and it's about to get worse since one is ending soon).

So! How are you doing?

This Type of Waste

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reason 382 I Am a Terrible Person

There's been a little mystery going on at my apartment this month, and yesterday I realized a flaw in my logic each time I think about it. A big, racially stereotyped flaw. You see, I live in a very echo-y place. I live at one end of the hallway, and if someone coughs at the other end of the hallway, I can hear it. Between the echo-happy materials used in the construction, my super-sonic hearing, and the lack of insulation here, I know way more than I should. I know it's Wednesday sex time on Wednesday afternoons (changed from Sundays). I know when the Indian girls next door are home alone, because that's when they smoke in their bathroom. I know when the little Mexican girl next door is having a sleepover from hearing all their giggles through the wall (it's pretty cute). And I think I know that three little boys down the hall don't seem to have left this building since the new year.

I'm home most of the time. It costs $2 to get anywhere, so I mostly just walk to close places. I can do a loop of post office, bank, drugstore, library, supermarket and back home in an hour without lines. So when I'm not temping, I'm pretty much home all the time. It'd be hard to fathom that these boys happen to leave only when I do.

It was in the week of the New Year that I realized the sounds of three little boys had been constant for a few days. Figured they'd just moved in. Figured the sounds would die down when school started back up. Sure the baby would still be around, and maybe even the middle kid, but at least the oldest one would be out of the house for a good chunk of time each day. Not so.

No, these three boys do not go to school. They speak a mixture of Spanish and English (not that they speak Spanglish, but that they switch back and forth). There are only studios and one-bedroom apartments in this building, so there are at least four people living in these boys' home, but I think it's five. I've heard a male voice soothing the baby when he's crying late at night, and a female voice screaming at all the boys to knock it off when their playing turns to fighting.

From hearing these boys constantly, I've sussed out that youngest is around two, the middle is around four or five, and the oldest boy - the one who taunts and mimics the others when they cry which makes them cry harder - could be anywhere from about six to nine. Six is a stretch, judging from his style of talk, but it's possible.

Then yesterday I had an epiphany! Maybe the oldest one is home-schooled! That would explain why he's home all day. This is where I become (yet again) a terrible person: I immediately dismissed the idea, thinking "these people don't homeschool!"

Promptly I felt ashamed, and tried to dissect my thought. Why not? What about these people makes them not the type to homeschool? They're poor? Lots of poor people homeschool. They're not white? Basically, yes. I honestly can't think of any people I've seen on tv, met in person, or read about who homeschool but are not white. It appears to me that people who homeschool are white. I'll just go stone myself to death now.

Around Christmastime there were two boys playing ball in the hallway one day when I was leaving. As I locked my door the older boy was crouched on the floor, tying his shoe. When I came home they were still in the hallway and as I walked past the older boy I told him, "Your shoe came untied again." He knelt down to fix his laces as I walked to my door. A half hour later I left my house a second time and the boys were still playing ball. The shoelace of the older one was again dragging on the floor. He saw me and immediately told his brother to hold the ball, and as I locked my door, I saw him struggling with his shoelace.

It became clear to me as I locked my second lock that he did not really know how to tie his shoe. When I asked if he'd like some help, he nodded, and I knelt down. As I tied I explained, asking the boy how old he was once I'd finished. "Nine," he admitted quietly. It was clear he knew he should know this skill. I didn't want to make him feel bad. "You'll get it if you practice," I told him. I wonder if these are two of the boys I am hearing all the time. If so, whoever is homeschooling them may want to add shoe-tying to what they're teaching.

It's not because they're not white. That's not why I think these boys are not homeschooled. I could easily expand my vision of People Who Homeschool to include all races and nationalities. No, more than race, it's attitude. The people I've seen who homeschool are really, really into it. Whether or not they're misguided or unequipped to be doing it, they have a clear sense of what they aim to teach their kids.

That apartment with the three kids? The acoustics are such that I can hear the mother when she's quietly talking to her friend on the phone late at night. Her window may be open, but mine is closed. If mine were open I would know exactly what they talked about (if we were language-compatible, that is). My point is, I can hear really well what's going on there (reason 828 I really need a job), and I do NOT hear any adult talking to this boys in any sort of teaching style. It's just not happening.

So I will remain mystified and intrigued by these three boys who are always home, always playing and fighting. I will hope they are somehow getting an education. Lastly, I hope that nine year old who can't tie his shoes either learns soon, or has parents who will get him velcro sneakers so he doesn't get teased by his friends.

*Does it count as people watching if you can't actually see them?

Who Needs Titles?

When I lived in Florida I never understood why the old people always yammered on about the weather and their various medical ailments. I am older and wiser now, and thus understand the weather thing. They yammer about the weather because it's fun. I don't know exactly what age this becomes fun, but if you are 21 or 23 and thinking that sounds like crazy talk, then you have not yet hit the magical weather age yet. I love bitching about the heatwaves. I love tossing an extra pair of socks in my bag in case the original socks get soaked while I'm walking through a rainstorm in the city.

So. While I hate the heatwaves and hide out in my home or air-conditioned bookstores, a friend of mine loves it. She runs outside and does all kinds of warm weather activities like going to a pool or beach or laying out in a park. But. She always calls me to see how I'm doing on her way home from the beach, to make sure I haven't schvitzed away.

It's been raining all day today. After checking the hourly forecast and seeing it's scheduled to rain all day I headed out to run an errand. Halfway to the store I was soaked. My goal was Kinko's to print out a couple of things I need for tomorrow. By the time I arrived my jeans were heavy from being so wet. I stood in line, and as I looked around, noticed I was the only white person in the store. My hands were wet and slippery from the rain, and as I tried to fully close my umbrella my hand slipped, the umbrella shot out, and hit the black girl in front of me in the ass. HORRIFIED! Luckily she was cool with my, "Oh my god, I'm SO sorry!" and laughed it off.

I walked in and dug in my bag to get out my wallet - you have to put a credit/debit card in to use the Kinko's computers. My wallet was not. in. my. bag.

This was shocking. I am not the type of person who forgets her wallet. I am the type of person who opens her front door to leave the house and pats her jeans packet to make sure she feels her keys there. Who checks and double-checks. Who is cautious.

My heart sank at the thought of wading back home through the rain to get my wallet and come back. I dug through my bag again - maybe I'd just missed it. Nope. Found my checkbook, but no wallet. I asked the guy at the counter if I could pay by check and held my breathe waiting for his answer. No. You can pay by check for a service, but not to use the computer.

I thought for a second. "Is there any way I can use a service to print out two things, rather than using the computer?" The guy told me there wasn't. I thanked him and turned away, prepared to walk home through the rain. "Here," the guy said, holding out what looked like a Kinko's giftcard. I took it, and he told me to use that and then we'd see where things stood.

As quickly as possible I used the computer (they charge 25 cents per minute) and printed out the documents I need for tomorrow. When I handed the card back to the guy, I stood waiting to hear how much I should write a check out for. He nodded at me. "Have a nice day."

I freaking love nice people. So very much. When I got home, I decided to call my friend who loves the heatwaves, since as much as I hate the heat, she hates the rain. Before we hung up, I said if it was still raining tomorrow I'd pick her daughter up from school, so she doesn't have to go out in the rain a second time in one day. She told me to call her anyway after I take the test I have scheduled in the morning (for a job) to let her know how it goes. "Thank you for being my family." It just came out. Having somebody care really counts for a lot.

Funny That Blanca (o) Means White

I need an up-to-date typing test to submit with my resume for a job. There are these career development centers for people on unemployment, and yesterday I called one, to see if they charge for a typing test. They don't. I asked if I could come in first thing this morning. Blanca, the woman on the phone, told me they'd already filled all the appointments for today, and the rest of this week. I explained that because this is a job with the City that I'm applying for, there's a deadline.

Blanca put me on hold. When she came back she said that if I could get there 15 minutes before they open today at 9am, she would open early for me so I could rush in, take my test, and get out. I agreed and thanked her. It was such a nice thing to do that it made me wish I could bring her a giftcard to a coffee shop or something.

When I started out this morning the heatwave had lifted. The cool air felt great as I waited for the bus. And waited. It was eight minutes behind schedule. Inside my head, I kept urging the bus driver to go faster. At my stop I rushed off the bus and tried to get my bearings and figure out where in the Mission the career place was. Down the block I saw a long line of people waiting outside. Hoping that was it, I walked towards them. It was.

There were security guards all over the place. All the people were standing in line. If I stood at the back of the line I wouldn't even get in until after 9am, let alone 15 minutes earlier. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go up to each person in line and somehow tell them, "I'm not cutting you," even though I was. I walked in and said I had an 8:45 appointment with Blanca.

The woman asked me my name and then told me Blanca wasn't there yet, but I should go wait at the tables for her. The tables were next to a desk with a "Computer Center" sign. I told the guy manning the desk that I was there to see Blanca. He told me she'd be right out. I pulled out my book to read and people-watch. There were tons of people there. I was kind of shocked. I shouldn't have been - everyone knows it's hard to find a job.

I was the only white person in the entire place. An old Chinese lady was in line for something, and a security guard went over and told her to stop singing loudly. A group of girls sat down at a table near me, and pulled out McDonalds and started eating. It smelled both good and gross all at the same time.

Blanca came over and introduced herself to me. She's either in her late 60's or has lived a hard life and is in her early 60's. She was wearing grandma shoes with an ankle-length skirt that had fringes cut up to the knees. Blanca led me over to a computer and set me up to take the typing test. I did the one-minute warmup, and then the computer crapped out. When I told Blanca, she pointed to a man talking to a pregnant girl, and told me he might be able to fix the computer. Not to let him leave. So I sat, alone except for the two of them, and pretended not to listen to their conversation.

I pretended not to listen as the pregnant girl talked about her daughter, and how she didn't like the relative doing childcare. How she was putting in all these hours volunteering someplace, but was frustrated. Frustrated because she came home at the end of the day exhausted, and still had to take care of her daughter and listen to her parents and she isn't even getting paid very much. They sat very close - knees almost touching - and the man did active listening.

Blanca came back, said something to me that I didn't catch, and then walked out of the room. After a couple of seconds, I realized she'd said vamanos, so I grabbed my bag and hurried to catch up. There was a second computer room and she set me up to take my typing test there.

A black lady who worked there walked in and told me it might get loud and she was sorry, but I should just do my best to concentrate. We agreed it was warm in the room, and I said surely it wasn't as bad as yesterday. The McDonald's girls walked in, along with some other girls, and I tuned them out while I did the warmup to the typing test again. In less than sixty seconds I felt myself slide into that zone, where your mind checks out and your body takes over.

As I started the five-minute test, the one that would count, I started listening to the girls behind me as they talked with the black lady. First she criticized them for arriving late. Then she reminded them they were supposed to be dressed for work and while she knew it was very hot, spaghetti-strap tank tops and short shorts were not appropriate. I typed, they talked. She asked one girl if she'd talked to another woman who wasn't there.

The girl said no, not yet. A second girl asked why the first girl was going to talk to that woman. Apparently you can apply to get your police record cleared, to make getting a job easier. Who knew you'd learn such important information during a typing test?

When my five minutes were up, I told the program to print my results, and I started out of the room to go find Blanca. The black lady was surprised. "You leavin' already?" I explained it was just a five-minute test. We said goodbye. As I walked out I heard one of the girls say, "I bet she already has a real good job."

"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.

Curious Incident of the Temp in the Day-Time

Last Thursday afternoon I got called by a temp agency, asking if I was available for half a day on Friday afternoon. Of course I said yes, and then found out I was being brought in to do three specific things.

1. Table of Contents
2. Table of Authorities
3. E-file a motion

I've been taught how to create the first two, but it's very rare that I ever actually have to do it. What's more likely to happen is that an attorney will hand me a motion that already has the TOC that they've futzed with, and then they want me to fix the resulting screwups. I don't know if everyone is like this, but when I do something very rarely, I have a hard time remembering how to do it. So TOCs and TOAs are not really my thing.

E-filing is bullshit. People always seem really panicked about whether or not you know how to e-file. If you know how to use the internet, you know how to e-file (unless I am fucking it up on a regular basis all over the place). It's really that simple (unless it's not, in which case, whoops). You get the attorney's log-in information, log into the court, do a search to see what the judge wants, and then follow directions. There's no rocket science involved.

I arrived at the law firm on time Friday afternoon. The receptionist was rushing around in a panic. She was the only administrative person working there, except for the office manager, who was strangely cold. They finally got me set up at a computer, and explained that the pleading needed to be filed at 4pm. It was 1pm then, so I told them no problem, I could definitely have everything done in less than three hours (there are deadlines when e-filing).

The receptionist introduced me to the founding partner of the law firm, and the two contract attorneys he had working there. All three of them were working on the pleading. The founding partner asked me into his office, and proceeded to ask me a highly technical WP question about formatting within a pleading that I didn't know the answer to. I explained that I've seen that issue before, I don't know how to fix it, but here are two ways to work around it.

He seemed upset, and I gently told him that there's a difference between word processors and legal secretaries. He asked if the agency had anyone who would know how to do what he wanted, and again seemed upset when I told him I don't know who else the temp agency hires. It was a little awkward, but I tried to smooth things over by reassuring him that I knew how to do what I'd been told they needed.

Then I left and waited for someone to tell me it was time to start working on the pleading. Eventually the founding partner came in with one of the contract attorneys and quite awkwardly asked if I could make revisions. I reassured him that I'd be happy to do revisions. We agreed I would revise, then save the pleading as a new document before creating the TOC and TOA.

Let me be honest with you, Interwebs. I had to look up how to create those, since I do it so infrequently and needed the reminder. This took me five minutes. There were only three levels within the TOC and the pleading was only ten pages, so you can see it didn't take long.

There is no one correct way to format these things. I mean, there are generally acceptable ways for them to look, but some attorneys like the words "Table of Contents" to be bolded and centered, while others like them to be left-justified or whatever. So when I'm walking in and meeting lawyers for the very first time, there's no way for me to know what style they'll want unless they show me pleadings they've filed previously and I can copy that format.

While I was doing the revisions, the three attorneys kept coming in, nervously asking me how it was going, looking over my shoulder, making further revisions, asking if I could move this paragraph here, move that sentence there.

They were also coming in every five minutes, asking me to print out what I'd done. Then as they'd look at what came off the printer, they'd make changes and ask me to correct what they were looking at. So at no point did I ever get to finish and present what I'd done without input.

Then at some point, I got asked to change the page numbering. I quickly began shoving in section breaks and changing the page numbering in the TOC and TOA to roman numerals like they wanted. When I'd finished, I printed the pleading out and brought it to one of the contract attorneys. He and the other one were arguing about something so I left it on their desk and went over to the receptionist, who looked very stressed, to ask if she needed any help. She didn't.

Then I found out she was filing other pleadings in the same case, so even though I'd originally been told I was being brought in to e-file, it wasn't too surprising when the lawyers gave the receptionist the pleading I'd been working on to e-file. Which she got done not at 4pm, but at 5:01.

But you know what was surprising? When a woman from the temp agency called me yesterday afternoon to ask me for my version of what went on Friday, since the founding partner told her that although I was nice, I didn't know how to do what they'd brought me in to do. So I went through it. How when I walked in ready to work, they weren't ready for me. How before I could finalize anything they were asking me to print out whatever I'd done and continually making revisions to it, how the receptionist wound up doing the e-filing.

I told her about the obscure pleading issue the founding partner asked me to fix when I first arrived. She assured me she's gotten great feedback from every other firm she's sent me to, and that the agency is not firing me. That this happens sometimes. But then when we were saying goodbye, she said, "If I don't talk to you before Thanksgiving, have a wonderful holiday!" Of course I wished her the same, but as I hung up I thought, "But why won't I be talking to you before then? Surely you'll have work before Thanksgiving, won't you?"

So now I am nervous.

"Sent Home - Alcohol"

Have I ever told you about first grade and how much I hated it? I hated first grade. Not just because my teacher was a yeller. Not just because I got in a fight with the most popular girl in our grade and everyone sided with her. Not just because my crush liked her rather than me. Not just because my teacher would grab your arm and drag you into the hallway all while yelling. But mostly, when I think back on first grade, I think of all the dittos. That's what we did all day, every day. Dittos. Each morning the teacher would pass out seven or eight dittos and we were to complete them by the end of the day.

At least one or two of the day's dittos always involved cutting and pasting. I happen to (still) have terrible small motor skills, and I was never able to deal with the glue without making a big mess. I was one of those kids who didn't like having dirty, sticky hands. Even a gluestick was not enough help for me. Every day everyone else would be finished with their dittos and playing, except me. The cut and paste ditto got me every time.

Yesterday I got a call from a temp agency for a law firm that needed eight temps to go in and redact for them. We were all put in a conference room, four of us from one temp agency, four from another, and redacted all day long. Or until we had to leave, whichever came first.

Here's the scary thing: the eight of us were not all legal secretaries. There were two attorneys sitting at that conference table. There were two JDs (people who graduated from law school but did not yet pass the bar) as well. I know it's taboo to discuss money, but I'm going to do it anyway. I got paid $20 an hour for this job. Everyone there was getting right around the same thing. How much does it say about the economy in the Bay Area that two full-fledged lawyers were sitting there sticking redacting tape all over pieces of paper?

It was a two-day gig, and one of the attorneys didn't come back today. He didn't talk to anyone yesterday. People were speculating that he felt it was beneath him and couldn't bring himself to show up this morning. I have no opinion on this, as the particular guy sat at the opposite end of the conference table from me and I can't even picture him.

We were dealing with employee sign-in sheets. These employees didn't physically punch a clock, but they logged when they showed up for the beginning of their shift, when they left for and returned from lunch, and when they left at the end of their shift. The woman who was supervising us temps and this project was very flustered. Apparently these documents are for a mediation happening next week, and the docs were supposed to be delivered to opposing counsel by Tuesday. That's this past Tuesday. So she wanted us to rush, but also go slowly and be careful. Her directions were not clear at first. We all had a lot of questions.

On my fifth or sixth sign-in sheet, I saw something strange. An employee showed up for work, left for lunch four hours later, came back from lunch a half hour later, and left for the day two minutes after returning from lunch. My eyes flew all over the sheet trying to figure it out. Then I saw an asterisk with the notation "sent home - alcohol."

Well that explained it then. I asked the woman supervising if she wanted the notation redacted. She did, but everyone started laughing hysterically. One guy turned bright red in the face, and giggled about it intermittently throughout the rest of the day.

This is the guy who was taking pieces of paper and cutting them to paste over the names that needed to be redacted. The woman supervising saw what he was doing and praised him loudly for his idea. Inwardly I groaned, and hoped she wouldn't tell us to start using scissors and glue, because I knew I'd be sent home. I have not had glue in my home since moving out of my parent's house. Luckily someone brought in tape and the majority of us used post-its, tape and redacting tape.

The other thing I want to mention about this job is that there was such a time crunch that random people at the firm would drop by to help. We temps talked among ourselves, and often listened as the law firm employees talked to each other. We talked about things like the economy, places in the city to find cheap parking, how scared we are, how many things we need but aren't buying, etc.

What were the law firm employees talking about? Their jet lag that is a result of having just returned from a vacation in Costa Rica, the new steakhouse in the Omni Hotel, how they'll be taking time off next week for a few doctor's appointments they have lined up... There were a lot of unhappy faces at the side of the conference table where all the temps were sitting.