More Nuts than a Squirrel with OCD.

Last week was nuts.  N-V-T-S nuts.  (Bonus points to those who can identify the source of this quotation.)

 

I had a hearing.  With Ms. Whiny.  And she was a complete fucking bitchy ho-bag the entire week.  I will grant you, most attorneys display version of bitchy, whiny, asshole-icious, or otherwise sucktacular behavior during trials.  However, she was about to grate on my last fucking nerve. 

Everything that went wrong (which, in the overall scheme of things, was minor, i.e., a couple of computer issues, a document which mysteriously disappeared, etc.) was my fault.  While I know that part of my job is to be the whipping boy and take the shit, there’s a line.  There is especially a line when she says:

• “Now is a good time to ask questions.  Just ask KT or RH, because I’m in trial and I can’t answer them.”  (BITCH.  YOU ARE THE ONE WHO WANTS STUFF, AND IF YOU DON’T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT IT IS, IT’S NOT GONNA HAPPEN.)

• “You have to know every single piece of paper we produced.” (Which, actually, I did.  What I didn’t know was all of the shit that THEY produced.  Is knowing the basic contents and/or existence of 4000 pages not enough?  Evidently not.)

• “Don’t ever do [insert just about anything I tried to accomplish] that way again.”

The problem with this case is that it has been through 3 paralegals, both on our end and on our client’s end.  The documents had 86 different number designations (both ours and the opposing party’s).  It had been continued twice, and had been going on for almost 3 years.  Probably the attorney I was working for is the one who knew the file the best.  She’s one of those self-sufficient types, mostly.  The problem is, she will tell you that she doesn’t need anything and doesn’t need help and then send you 87 e-mails at quarter to five which she somehow thinks can be accomplished in 15 minutes.  Furthermore, a lot of the stuff she wants me to “find,” she knows where the fuck to find it, but it’s like it’s some kind of test as to whether I can read her fucking mind.  Of course, I don’t have that power.

 

(Parenthetical time:  last night, Lando and I watched this comedy special on HBO…Louie someone…and he did a bit about how he told someone they would probably die in a plane crash.  They called him back, all neurotic, and told him to take it back and that he would feel really bad if they did die.  He was all “I would gladly trade your life for knowledge of my powers.”  HAHAHAHA.  I would gladly trade Ms. Whiny’s diva status for knowledge of MY powers.)

 

Plus.  She annoys me on a personal level.  She’s about the same age I am.  She spends half her time being a bossy know-it-all, and the other half playing dumb and semi-flirting with the boss mens.  She talks in a derisive way about her husband, who she JUST FUCKING MARRIED, and from what I can tell, he’s gotta be a saint to even put up with her ass. 

 

At least I don’t have another case with her until October.

 

In other office goings on, Mr. Meeting sometimes boggles my mind with his silly-ass statements.  He’s been talking on the phone lately about various health problems, including prostate and colon issues.  I suppose he was talking to his wife, or a female friend, or something, and they were discussing colonoscopies.  (Keep in mind, I only heard HIS side of the conversation.  At least he didn’t have the shit on speakerphone.)  I can only surmise that the other party said something to the effect that she was having female issues in addition to bowel issues, and he comes out with “is your colon linked to your ovaries?”

 

That is stupid on so many levels, I cannot even comment. 

 

Also speaking of the office, I was kinda hoping for a snow day this week.  Yeah, we got to leave early Friday, but I wanted TODAY off too.  Most of our attorneys deal with the financial services industry…and the banks, stock exchanges, etc. are all closed today.  So are the courthouses.  This would have been an ideal unscheduled holiday.  But noooo, we have to come in.  It took almost an hour and a half to get enough of the ice and crap off my car this morning to be able to see to drive.  That INCLUDES letting the heater run for about 35-40 minutes before I even fucking went and tried to scrape it.  I needed an ice PICK, not a plastic scraper thingy. 

 

It was amusing, though…I went to the liquor store Friday afternoon before it got too ugly, and they were very low on inventory.  The owner was there working, and he was like “I had no idea it would be like this.”   The store is right next to Blockbuster.  Apparently, people would come in and tell him that they’d been in line there for hours because of the impending “ICE DEATH 2007.”   

 

Duh, Mr. Store Owner.  What the fuck else is there to do but watch movies, play games, and get drunk when you can’t leave the house? 

 

Hopefully, the fucktards will plow the streets some more, though.  My low riding car DOES NOT LIKE the mound between wheel ruts.  It will be a wonder if, after this week, I still have a muffler.  Maybe I should get it customized and get some monster truck tires put on it.   With spinner wheel covers. 

Let’s All Pretend We’re Normal.

Despite some silliness with the airport security people and their idiot rules about toiletries and lighters, the holidays with the fam were not so bad. I ate entirely too much and slept entirely too little, but overall, I’d have to mark this Christmas in the “non-suck” column.

(The airlines will now let you bring liquids, but only in 3-ounce containers. And only if they are in a Ziploc baggie. Well, I PUT my stuff in a fucking baggie. Mr. Security Moron informs me that (a) the baggie is not regulation size and (b) ONLY the liquids need to be in it, and things like eye drops and zit cream don’t count, because they are “medications.” He then proceeds to separate all of my toiletries into individual piles and re-Ziplocs the appropriate items. I then dump all the shit back in my bag. Also, I apparently left a lighter in my jeans pocket in my suitcase. Whoops. I volunteered to fish it out, since I knew what pocket and where the jeans were in my suitcase, but I was not allowed to TOUCH my suitcase until Mr. S.M. rooted through the whole thing and messed it all up in an effort to ensure that I didn’t set the plane on fire. He then, with a STRAIGHT FACE, informed me that I was free to keep the lighter, but that I would have to take it to my car. I told him to keep the 50 cent lighter which was almost empty anyway. Then, they have to send the bag back through the x-ray. WTF? They saw ONE LIGHTER and then DUG THROUGH THE WHOLE FUCKING THING. What did they expect to find? Seriously.)

My stepfather was actually being pleasant. I’m not sure if it’s because my mom threatened him with death, or what, but he silenced his Inner Asshat for a few days.

And my mom, my brother, and I spent some time looking through a bunch of old photos and laughing at each other’s bad hair and fashion choices. For your amusement, here are a few choice ones of me. Unfortunately, the pic of my brother sporting a mullet and really ugly glasses was a little blurry for scanning fun.

(Click on the thumbnail for full-size image.)

Me, age 5, riding my first bike. It was yellow and white and had a banana seat with these pink and purple flowers.

Me, age about 7, looking like I’m plotting the destruction of the world.

 

Me, age 8, at Disney World. Note the pigtails with those horrible little ball ponytail holders that usually popped me in the head at least twice before the pigtails were fully formed. I think they quit making those stupid things for a while, but like Strawberry Shortcake, the Transformers, and gaucho pants, they are now being manufactured again so that my generation can torment their own offspring.

Me, age 10, after I won the school spelling bee. Shut your pie-hole. Also a lovely example of why I should never layer my hair or have bangs, ever.

 

Me, age 12-ish, before I learned that blue eyeshadow and sweater vests were bad.

 

Me, age 14-ish. God, that perm was horrible. As was that icky-ass sweater.

 

Me, sometime shortly post-college. Overalls. How cute.

 

And one of my parents in the 70’s…I love this. I love everything about it, from their outfits to the afro behind them.

That’s all the photo album you guys get for today.  I have to actually work, and shit…it’s time for “Fun with PowerPoint!”, “How the Fuck Did You Graduate from Law School When You Cannot Construct a Simple Declarative Sentence?” and “Moving Paper from One Pile to Another in an Attempt to Look Busy.”

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas….Dammit.

In a departure from previous years around this time, I’m going to try not to bitch about Christmas.

HAHAHA. I crack myself UP, I tell you.

I am, however, going to try to bitch about NEW things about Christmas, instead of the same old “I hate airports, I hate my annoying stepfather, I hate buying presents for people at work that I don’t give a shit about” rant.

First, let’s discuss Christmas music. It’s ok. Once in a while. Maybe while you’re decorating the tree and drinking lots of (heavy on the Jack Daniels) eggnog (which, despite someone’s assertion, is NOT made from elf cum). Or when you’re opening presents. Or some such nonsense. But not everywhere you go, for fuck’s sake. And especially not at work.

(An aside in re: the trip to Starbucks. I think that Lando is just jealous, because the geeky little Starbucks dude gave some props to the ride (although it’s creepy as shit that they have a camera on their drive thru order screen) and then gave me a larger Eggnog Latte than I ordered. I ordered the eggnog because I’m not sure how I feel about minty coffee, though Lando did let me have a sip after I thoroughly wiped my mouth and it was not horrible…and because I already had a gingerbread one. I will have to say that the eggnog one kinda tasted like the gingerbread one….perhaps a little richer and creamier, but still with a major hint of nutmeg. Look, Starbucks employees. That doesn’t get you high unless you ingest a LOT, and even then, it induces puking, or so my entire high school debate team said. /end aside.)

The paralegal next door to me has been on a Christmas kick for the last three weeks. The office building has hired minstrels of some sort every fucking day at lunch. (One of them was practically acoustic-guitar jamming on “Silent Night”, which is all kinds of wrong anyway.) The stores pipe that shit right down your throat, and it’s usually some muzak-y Mannheim Steamroller horseshit that’s a perfect complement to the throngs of screaming parents and children.

The real problem with Christmas music is that it gets stuck in my head worse than that stupid-ass Backstreet Boys song (“I want it thaaaaaat way”). I’ve been humming “What Child is This” all fucking week. Maybe I should make up some new Grinch-like words:

What mall is this
I’m shopping at
Filled with annoying assholes?
Where Yuppies breed
And come to feed
And make fun of my fat rolls?

This, this, is really hell
Filled with lights that are blinking
Help, help, I hate this hole
I’d rather be out drinking.

So buy your presents
Really fast
Then dash to find some cover
From shopping mobs
Who have no jobs
But have a nice, rich lover.

This, this is hell on earth
With tinsel and piped carols
Stop, stop the insanity
Or I’ll plug you full of airholes.

I so have a future in lyric writing.

As Lando did point out in his blog, we did go Christmas shopping, and it did take us forever to buy each other gifts. Lando ended up with 4 of the remastered Cure CD’s with B-side extras (which have been on his Amazon Wish List forever), and I ended up with this little trinket:

I’m not usually much of one for jewelry, but I’d been feeling the need for some girly sparkles lately. I never put up a Christmas tree (why bother, as I’m not ever home on Christmas, and my cats would just destroy it anyway, and while I’m all for entertaining the little heathens, Christmas shit is way too expensive to be cat toys), so maybe I’m trying to be my own Christmas tree?

I usually like presents to be a surprise…I’m generally pretty good at picking things out, I think, and the best part is getting someone something that they really like but weren’t expecting and getting to see the happy face, but this year, I was too poor to shop before I got my bonus check. (Actually, that’s every year. Who the fuck am I kidding? Most of my “surprise” shopping ends up for birthdays.) The bonus check arrived Friday, and Friday night was “fun with laundry”, so Saturday shopping it was.

I suppose I could have saved us both the stress and just said “fuck Christmas,” but I have it in my twisted little skull that a present is a way to show someone that they mean a lot to you…as long as it’s something that they really want and wouldn’t do for themselves.

I’m treading perilously close to The Sappy Land, where one might get stuck, so let’s move on to some random funny stories:

My other new office neighbor is Mr. Meeting. Mr. Meeting is, in Seinfeld-speak, a “loud talker.” Mr. Meeting has lately been talking loudly about everything. Including his prostate. But the funniest thing is that, every single evening, right around 5:30, he calls his house and asks what the “situation” there is. From what I can’t help but hear, it usually means “do I need to stop and get food on the way home?”

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The other day, I went to lunch with CB, and we saw some most disturbing shit at a local florist. There was a little fake dead-looking bird in an ugly brass pot, and a ginormous pile of floppy, limp teddy bears in all different colors…and it was just laying on the floor in the display window. CB attempted to document this on her cell phone, but the pictures wouldn’t e-mail, so alas, you get none.

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My dad is so clueless sometimes. He usually sends e-mail from work, but has a personal account for whatever reason…and he sent me an e-Card. First, his message on said e-Card was a little “WTF? Have you been on the same planet as I have for the last 15 years?” (He suggested church. And I think he was serious.) But that only amplifies the irony of how (unintentionally) obscene his e-mail address is.

Openhole?

I’m sure he thinks it’s something about fishing or hunting. I wonder if any of his friends will tell him that it has other meanings. It’s not like my dad is ignorant of porn…my brother used to find it in his closet.

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P.S. I have (obviously) changed blog servers, for now, because I’ve decided I’m not paying Diaryland any more money. I know that you just changed over to this one…and it looks like you copied your archives….was there a speedy shortcut for that, or just hours of tedious bullshit that we all know I’m not patient enough to do?

Greetings, Salutations, and All That Shit.

If you’re here, you probably saw me somewhere before, so I’ll skip all that “getting to know you” rot and get right to my usual cursing, blaspheming, and talking about my cats.