So, work sucks

Well, so far 2009 sucks.

First there was the implosion of my parents’ marriage and the subsequent head-in-the-sand-that-weekend-never happened-lalalalala approach to conflict resolution that has been driving me nuts.

Then there was the whole we’re thinking about laying you off, but we’re not sure, so have fun getting through the next week talk at work.

And then today, I get smacked with a decision. Take a lay off now or take a giant paycut (1/2 my current salary), work through the end of March, and then reassess, meaning “probably get laid off, but maybe get bumped up back to your real pay.”

Well, I’m sure as hell not sticking around here until the end of March, hoping they like me enough to decide to keep me around forever. That's like hoping my abusive boyfriend will take me back.

My first instinct was to be all “fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” but then reality dawned and I realized I need to crunch some numbers, see if it makes more sense to collect unemployment or collect ½ my salary for the next few months.

Reporting a theft

I was out on my lunch break today (taking a nice looong one, since they’re going to fire me and all, I feel no reason to be punctual about returning to sit at my desk and fume), hanging out at the Barnes and Noble, when I spied something.

I was seated by the window, getting a head start on the book I decided to buy, when I noticed the guy across from me was looking around furtively. And then he pulled a book off a shelf and tucked it into a plastic bag he had produced from his pocket.

I witnessed someone shoplifting!

The store has security guards and police stationed all over the store, especially during the lunch hour, so I slid out of my chair and mosied over to the nearest security guard and said, “I think that guy just stole a book.”

The guard thanked me and strode off to deal with it.

And I was left with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I’m not sure if I did the right thing. Would I have reacted differently if he had been stealing food? What if he had been stealing an ipod? The guy was in the art section of the store – you know, where Time’s Picture of the Year books are displayed – so he wasn’t stealing a resume book or a self-help book. Would that have made a difference?

In addition, while I don't exactly live a life of crime, I have stolen shot glasses from bars while on vacation and I have a pretty large collection of post-its at home courtesy of my employer.

So now, in addition to being in a kitten-kicking mood about work, I’m feeling guilty and hypocritical about reporting a theft.

Is $75,000 in student loan debt worth this?

So, I’m facing termination from my job within the next week. Of course, the firm I work for is not sure that’s what will happen; they might fire me, they might cut me to half time, they might not do anything.

And I might lose my little mind.

I shouldn’t be surprised. This place basically drove MJ into the ground when they gave her the boot. They reduced her to tears and overwhelming agony. Why should I be shocked when they attacked me in the same way?

Backstory: I began working at this firm more than three years ago as a law clerk. When I graduated from law school, I joined the firm as an associate attorney. My pal MJ scored me the law clerk job, which might have been a mistake on her part because a year later they pitted the two of us against each other for the one associate job available. She and I didn’t indulge in a gladiator-esque battle for the position, instead choosing to apply to other jobs and see what happened. We both figure they’d offer the job to her. I mean, she’s smarter, a far better writer, and had been at the firm a lot longer. I got offered a job as a judicial clerk and the very next day they managed to break MJ’s heart and offer me a job.

When they told MJ she was not getting the job, they did it in such a way that her confidence, her faith in herself, and her entire career path were thrown into question. As if it wasn’t enough to refuse to offer her a job she coveted, they kicked her while she was down.

Because MJ is a very good person and a very good friend, she urged me to accept the offer, since it was about an hour closer to where I live than the judicial clerk position and paid more (not significantly more, but more). She landed on her feet by getting a very prestigious clerkship (I told you she was smart) and I took the job. She harbors no ill feelings towards me because I got the offer. (Or if she does, she’s a very good actress). She’s been nothing but kind and supportive.

And I’ve needed it. When I took the job the firm was very busy. I was their first ever associate and we were going to have to learn together, but I thought it would be okay. Nope. This job has nearly killed me. I’m questioning if I’m a good lawyer, a good litigator, a good employee.

And now, this. Termination. Firing. Laying off. I have no idea what term they’ll give what they’re doing to me, but it’s pretty clear I’m going bye-bye. In the process of giving me the boot, they’ve done to me what they did to MJ: kicked me in the teeth.

Sometimes I think going to law school was the biggest mistake of my life and the past few months aren’t doing anything to make me feel better about incurring a mountain of debt to end up in a place like this.

Facebook Faux Pas

Like nearly every person my age, I have a Facebook page.

It’s full of random crap. Pictures of my dog, pictures of my wedding, bitchy posts and inane updates on my life. (You know, much like this blog.)

I made the mistake, in a long conversation with my boss today about a pending case, of mentioning that I have a Facebook page.

Apparently, so does boss, because he added me as a friend.

Shit!

I have not confirmed or ignored his friend request, but I must. And I think I have to confirm it, because otherwise, I just look bad, right?

Now, it’s not that I’ve got anything really bad posted. I can go through my profile and sanitize it, removing any really terrible posts or photos. I won’t even be too embarrassed if he sees the terrible pictures from my bachelorette party (MJ, think you could remove the one of me gnawing on plastic penises?).

But Facebook is my ultimate work escape tool. Dammit.

Email Exchange

I'm cleaning out my very full e-mail inbox at work today because we've officially hit the holiday slump, where there's just not much going on. And my inbox is VERY full, mostly with junk or funny emails from friends.

I stumbled across this gem:

Me: I forgot to put on deodorant today and I'm starting to offend myself.
AP: It happens to the best of us.

Really? I think she was just being nice, because I find it hard to believe the rest of the world is as batshit insane as I am and forgets such basic stuff. Have you ever forgotten deodorant? What about other things, like socks? Or am I the only one that has to keep a full change of clothes and a toiletry kit in her office?

Random, strep throat edition

I am currently suffering from a wicked cold. I’m all mouth-breather and runny-nose-sniffler right now. I’m also hopped up on Sudafed and other stuff. I feel really bad for the poor court clerk I talked to this morning. We had a nice, long chat about letters rogatory and she had to listen to my raspy, fading, nasally voice for about 10 minutes while we hashed out what the hell a letter rogatory is. (Short answer: a giant pain in the ass.)

Anyway, I’m all stuffy and drugged and I just have nothing interesting to talk about. So here’s a list of random junk for you.

The zipper on my pants is broken. I was packing up clothes to take to Goodwill and couldn’t figure out why these pants were in the pile. They’re my size, they’re a nice wool/silk blend, and they’re black…what the hell? So I put them on today. And about 11:00 this morning I noticed my zipper was down and then every couple of minutes for the rest of the day I had to yank it back up. Now I remember why they were in the pile.

I cannot blowdry my hair with a round brush. Just can’t. I don’t have the patience to blowdry my hair anyway, but add the stupid brush into the mix and watch me lose my mind. Today I pulled my chin length hair into a half-assed ponytail and pinned all the too-short pieces back with bobby-pins. I look like I let a pair of 5-year-old girls do my hair, but at least it was out of my face while I dealt with the letter rogatory B.S. today.

One of my coworkers has been running around the office with untreated strep throat. Said coworker is well aware of their illness and well aware of the communicability of the illness but “does not have the time” to go to the doctor and cannot stay home. Fine. But when I come down with strep, I’m not treating it. I’m waiting for coworker to get better and then I’m going to lick their coffee cup.

I have a picture on my desktop at work of the beach in St. Croix and I catch myself staring at it far more often than I should. I keep flashing to how the mister and I walked by the courthouse nearly every day and passed dozens of lawyers’ offices. I bet I could totally get a job down there. And then I’d get to live in the Caribbean. Sounds pretty good, yeah?

I have no idea what to do for Christmas this year. I have no money, no time to make gifts, and no creativity to come up with alternate solutions. It’s stressing me out.

I also have no idea how the mister and I are going to work holidays this year. The past few years he’s gone to his parents’ house and I’ve gone to mine. Because they’re only about a half hour apart, we both manage to see both families, but for most of the day, I’m in one place and he’s in another. The one day he and I managed to stay together the whole day we ended up eating two turkey dinners. I was comatose for a week after that. Last year we hosted Christmas Eve and while it was a lot of work (for me, anyway; the mister put beer in a cooler and was all “what, we have to do more?”), it was nice because everyone came to our house and we didn’t have to monkey around. We might try it again but this time I will leave work early instead of rushing home at 5:30 to get everything ready. Plus I’d like to actually make it to Mass this year instead of being too busy cooking to go to early Mass and too tired to go to midnight Mass.

This whole being a grown up thing sucks.

A little late

I had to go to the law library the other day and in order to get there, I need to go through the security line for the courthouse. So, I was standing there, debating weather my bracelet would set the alarm off, when the guy behind me leans forward and asks me if I'm a lawyer.

"Yes," I reply, a little unsure.

"Great. See, I've got this thing in courtroom," he pauses to check a piece of paper, "1352 and I need a lawyer."

I know it's rude, but I just started laughing. "No. Sorry."

Crazy-making

My life is sort of chaotic at the moment and it's making me crazy.

My sister in law just moved into my basement.

For an undetermined amount of time. It's always awkward having a long-term guest, particularly since it feels like we just got our house back from our last long-term guest.

In other crazy-making news, I’m dealing with a sort of dramatic case at work (as dramatic as my field of law gets, anyway) and I’ve got a bunch of really needy clients that keep calling and calling and calling and I cringe every time my phone rings and have seriously debated yanking it off my desk and burying it in the kitchen trash can. I made the mistake of forwarding my office calls to my cell phone (which I pay for, not the firm) and spent most of the day yesterday and all of this morning wishing I'd read the manual and figured out how to silence the damned thing.

And I’ve been enjoying another lovely bout of gastrointestinal tract trouble, and there’s nothing I like more than unexplained vomiting.

NB: still not pregnant. But I actually woke up the other day and went “I think it’s time to have a baby.” Weird. I mean, the mister is still allergic to babies, although his 29^th birthday inspired some soul-searching, life-goal-revisiting, and general introspection, and while my biological clock might be going “make babies, make babies,” my brain is going “crushing student loan and credit card debt, an inability to take care of a dog, and general immaturity,” so I know it’s not time. But is that what happens? You’re going along all fine, thinking you’re not ready, positive you’re not ready, and then…bam! baby time?

Nervous

My secretary rode up in the elevator with 2 of our 5 bosses this morning. Their convo went something like this:

Secretary: You guys have a 9:45 meeting on your calendars. Is it still on?

Boss #1: Yes. All the partners will be in there and it will be followed by a big announcement.

Boss #2: silence.

Boss #1: Erm. Not that big of an announcement. Um, really, no big deal at all. Ha. Um.

Boss #2: silence.

Because my secretary and I are in cahoots, she immediately reports said convo to me.

So the question is, should I be packing up my desk and plotting the quickest post-firing routeto the train station?

Gassier than Usual

First off, a fact: the average person farts twelve to eighteen times per day, so those of you prissy people out there that are pretending like you’ve never broken wind: shut it. I know you’re lying.

Several weeks ago I went in for my annual exam. I know, you’re thinking, Buster, your hoo-haa is your business, don’t tell me about it.

I’m not going to. But I am going to tell you that my doctor suggested I begin taking a fiber supplement. She warned me that I would be a bit gassier than usual for the first few weeks I was on it.

She was not kidding.

(My college roommate is all: gassier? How is that possible?)

So, I’m taking my fiber supplement. And dealing with the consequences.

One morning last week, I got to work before the rest of my coworkers, other than my assistant, who I don’t think ever goes home. I’m usually here before the rest of the attorneys because I’d rather come in early and leave at 5 than come in at 9:30 and stay until 7.

So, I had the run of the office.

I noticed the lilies MJ sent me for my birthday need some trimming, so I got out my scissors and started snipping away, my back to my office door.

And I let fly the loudest fart in the history of the world.

And then I hear it. A throat clearing from behind me. My boss (one of five, actually) was standing in the doorway to my office.

“Buster,” he says, “I need to go take a deposition today, and while I’m gone I need you to do some research and draft a memo for me.”

I had to stand there, red-faced and embarrassed, and take notes regarding the information he needed.

Awesome.

Motorcycles as marketing tools

We have this client at work that I get a total kick out of. He’s just a couple years older than me, which is unusual given my field of law, and he works very hard at running his own business. He strikes me as the kind of guy the mister and my younger brother would welcome with beer and car talk.

He was in the office a few days ago and I was in a meeting with him and my boss. At the end of the meeting my boss asked if the client needed his parking validated. The client said no, he rode his motorcycle and parked it in the building garage. My boss, confused because parking in the building garage usually means parking fees, again offered the validations.

“[Boss],” I said, “the parking garage staff lets motorcyclists park for free down there.”

“How do you know?” boss said, turning to me.

“I park my motorcycle down there sometimes.”

The client perked up. “You ride a motorcycle?”

Some small talk ensued where we discussed make and model (he was thoroughly impressed with my R6, I’ll have you know). When he packed up and shook hands at the end of the meeting, the client goes, “Man, I love this firm. Great service, friendly people, and biker chicks on staff.”

My boss is now contemplating making that a firm motto.

Accident Prone

I work in a small office. There are 8 of us. Sometimes 9 if our part-timer is in, which is rarely.

Three of us ride our bikes to work at least once a week.

I wear a bike helmet. This morning my boss, who also rides, was giving me kind of a hard time. I think he’s a wind-in-the-hair kind of fella.

“What do you need that for?” he asked.

I just looked at him for a minute, surprised he even asked. Then I replied with: “[boss], you’ve met me, right? In just the last year I’ve sprained my wrist, thrown out my back, torn a ligament in my ankle, required stitches on two different occasions, shut my hand in a filing cabinet, fallen down stairs, shut my head in the elevator door, and flipped backwards out of my desk chair. Why do you think I wear the helmet?”

“Point taken,” he murmured quietly, wandering into his office.

Living up to Low Expectations

Several weeks ago I tagged along with one of my bosses to a hearing. I was supposed to give a brief synopsis of some relevant case law for the judge (this was a quick-fast case that didn’t allow for much briefing time, so I was going to provide the “law section" of what would have been in a brief). I never got to give my synopsis because the judge is way smarter than me and already knew the law. Upon our arrival back at the office everyone asked how my first hearing went.

“I didn’t have to talk; he already knew the law.”

“But she gave a hell of an introduction!” my boss said enthusiastically, shrugging out of his jacket and yanking off his tie.

I stared blankly for a minute, trying to think of what on earth I had introduced. No evidence, no exhibits….

“You mean the part where I said my name for the record?”

“Yeah, you did great!”

It’s good that they have such low expectations here.

Responsibility

I'm just looking for the job with the least amount of responsibility possible.
Paraphrased from Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) in American Beauty.

Well, I'm not, actually, but after today, I sort of feel like I should. We have this client at work that I really, really like and he really, really got screwed by his former employer and I really, really am infuriated by this and I'm not positive we can help make this right and it's killing me. I mean, I'm doing everything I can to help him and I want desperately, with every fiber of my being, to work this out for him, but I'm just not sure we can win, even though I really think we should.

How am I supposed to handle knowing that this guy's ability to make a living, to put food on the table, and to help support his family is basically sitting in my hands (well, me and my boss, whose ass is really the one on the line, but is much more emotionally distanced from this case than I am)?

A better day

Yesterday was one of those days at work. I got my ass chewed right away in the morning for something that was not in any way my fault. Note to bosses around the world: check your inbox, all the way to the very bottom, for something before you go howl at your underling for not getting it to you. And if you’re not going to check your inbox, if you’re just going to let stuff pile up in there, let people know so we can put important papers somewhere you will check.

Then the rest of the day was spent feeling a little dumb and incompetent. We had summit meetings for some of the cases I’m on and my contributions to them are always so useless. “Uh, sounds good to me.” Seriously, just leave me in my office to drool, folks, I don’t bring anything worthwhile to the table.

Today, though, is looking up. I was invited to speak at an upcoming conference, which is mildly terrifying and slightly flattering all at once, because of an article I coauthored several weeks ago.*

I got to have lunch with an awesome pal today and the restaurant we were at was basically networking central. In the course of our meal we saw about half a dozen people one or the other of us knew.

I’m wearing cute shoes and my feet are not bleeding.

I won’t have to work from home tonight for the first time all week.

*In the legal profession, “coauthored” means “wrote and stuck my boss’ name in the byline.” More or less. The boss in this instance did edit and offer suggestions, but the little one page article was mostly mine.

The 4:45 Ambush

All office minions of the world follow pretty much the same daily routine: come into work, settle in with a cup of coffee, check e-mail, prioritize tasks for the day, work (or pretend to work) for a couple of hours, lunch, work (or pretend to work), have an afternoon snack, chat with coworkers, work (or pretend to work), pack up and go home.

No matter what the designated go home time is, office minions start looking at the clock about fifteen minutes before that and making plans for their escape. It’s either calling the significant other to arrange dinner plans for the evening, writing out the grocery list, checking with friends to make sure they’re making it to happy hour, or trying to remember if you need to make it to the dry cleaner’s by 6 or 6:30.

(I am always wrong about the dry cleaners, by the way. They close at 6:00. They’ve had my favorite gray skirt suit for 3 weeks now because I never make it there on time.)

Then, about five minutes before go-time, the minion takes their dirty coffee cup or water glass to the kitchen, hits the bathroom one last time, tidies up their desk space, and gets tomorrow’s to-do list ready.

They change into their comfy going-home shoes, make sure they have whatever they need in their bag, and head for home.

There is the occasional SNAFU that screws up this carefully timed and routine office minion escape route. Sometimes there are emergencies, sometimes there are deadlines, and sometimes things just don’t get done by 5:00.

And that’s okay. We minions can handle it. We know we’re at the stage of our careers called “learning” and “paying our dues.”

But there’s a saying. It goes “a lack of planning on your part does not make an emergency on my part.”

If only this were true. When an office minion’s supervisor, director, or boss fails to plan appropriately, it does make an emergency for the minion.

And those emergencies always crop up at 4:45. And they usually happen several at a time. The minion, sitting quiet at their desk, is attacked from all directions, with several people rushing in with “this needs to be done right now” statements flying out of their mouths. This leaves the minion irritable and frustrated since the minion’s plans for dinner or pajamas and bad reality TV or finally having clean clothing are thwarted, tossed aside in the fray of quick-fast getting things done.

It happens. We understand. Hell, some of us create our own 4:45 ambushes when we hand stuff to our assistants just as they’re slipping their arms into their coat sleeves and we receive vicious, angry glares in response. We know that sometimes stuff gets away from you and it wasn’t supposed to go down like that and you’re really, honestly, truly, sorry. But that doesn’t mean we like it.