Oh The Challenges You’ll Have

Comments: 1 Comment
Published on: May 3, 2011

Ahhh, Mondays. Especially Mondays after the Boogieman has been vanquished. Most of the office here in our DC headquarters was abuzz with the talk of Osama getting taken out by a US Black Ops team comprised of Chuck Norris and Jack Bauer. In fact, the night before, GF and I raced out to the front of the White House when we heard the news, really to find out, much to our chagrin, that it was a thinly-guised fraternity party mainly consisting of people to young for 9/11 to have any gravity on the kind of milestone it really was.

However, it was an event. With energy. Lots of it. And I’m glad we went. Not necessarily to be a part of the party, but to embrace the importance of such a milestone. Too bad it was drowned out by college kids singing “We Are the Champions” and chanting

“Osama, You’re Fucking Dead. USA Rules!”

“USA! USA! USA!” could be heard blocks away when we parked and as we finally came to the front of the White House, GF pointed out it was more like Mardi Gras. Yes, there were people there showing off their patriotism, but moreso, most of these kids thought it’d be neat to bring a case of Natty Lite in front of the White House or dress up as Green Man (from It’s Always Sunny In California,) or do little stunts to try to get themselves on network news. One guy climbed a tree and sat in between some branches, all the while wrapped in an American flag. Oh, the cameras loved him. I guess, so did mine…

Kinda a douche, IMHO

Well, all in all, I’m glad we went. Not something I’ll tell my grand-kids, but all the same. But, it was kind of one of those things that would drag you out of bed to go be a part of if you lived in DC. Or I would think…

Getting to work on Monday, I was surprised at how many people I had to tell, “Yes, look at the news. We got Osama.” And, mind you, this wasn’t at 9. This would be at, like, 11 when I asked them in my ironic fashion,

“Why weren’t you at the party last night?”

“We killed Obama??”

“No… Osama. Bin Laden.”

And what wouldn’t be complete without Mr. Clean advising me to ambulate to his annex for an assignment of the utmost urgency without later showing any sign of what has been going on in the world?

“Mr. Paralegal, how are you?”

“I’m doing good, Mr. Clean. Yerself?”

“I am well. I seem to notice more foot traffic on the street today to pick up my cereal.”

One strange thing that I have noticed is that the one displaced modicum out of his impeccably spotless office is that he has a zip-lock half full of Cap’n Crunch on his desk. Well, at least he nutriates with the finest of products.

“I must ask you to procure me documents from the EPA. It is necessary for my review that I have an itemized index of a rulemaking from this past decade, along with any comments posted by such important entities as [client names retracted for the obvious ‘duh’ reasons.]”

Now, that phrase he just used, “itemized index”, is extremely redundant and I would think it would be one of those ‘paradoxes’ which would cause artificial intelligence such as Mr. Clean to crash on the spot. Obviously the powers of Cap’n Crunch are greater than we as humans know.

So, I go out to the EPA for my task. Fortunately, it’s a place I’ve been before and I have my favorite clerk who always helps me out. This shouldn’t be any problem. Normally, a request such as his means that he was unable to grab the comments made by individuals and companies on a particular rulemaking off of the government’s vast database (regulations.gov) and needs for the clerk to physically pull them. Normally, the documents don’t total over twenty pages. I hand the clerk the docket number which Mr. Clean didn’t just recite to me, he wrote down (that part is important as it will play its role later,) and the clerk begins her search.

Index comes right up, no problem. But then the computer begins to work. You can hear it begin to whir and chug inside its government issued Y2K Approved tower. After about 2 minutes, the search for comments brings up a result of about 6000 comments on one rulemaking. I ask the clerk if she can narrow it down to just the clients I need. She does. The filtered result is now at 4500 comments. I hope to God that Mr. Clean doesn’t make me go through all of that.

I bring the documents, loaded onto a CD back to the office and tell the robot attorney. Unstartled, he tells me to search through them and pick out any of them that reference a common type of element. This cannot be done easily. I literally must open every document and peer through the comments.

Working under attorneys, whether they be younger or older than yourself, you quickly realize that no matter what, they are right. No matter how far removed their requests are from reality, they are right. No matter how much more logic you inject into their request by suggesting another path, they are right. I don’t really understand how this happens. I’ve never experienced this in any other field or with any other type of boss. Is it a particular required class in law school I’m unaware of? Illogical Reasoning 101?

I curse under my breathe as I walk back to my little alcove in the universe that is this firm and begin this unduly task. After 4 hours and 600 comments, I pick up the phone to Mr. Clean.

“Mr. Clean, what exactly is your expected time frame on this project?”

“I would like to have it all by COB [“close of business”] today.”

“I really don’t know if that’s possible. It’s 4:30 right now and COB is in thirty minutes.

“Why don’t I send over what comments I’ve compiled so at least you can go through them.”

And then he sighs. Pause. He sighs again.

“Mr. Clean?”

“Okay, please send them to my inbox.”

New Message. Comments Attached. Sent.

Five minutes later I get a reply email: “Can you swing by my office to explain the comments?”

For his utter lack of casualness in person, Mr. Clean somehow is able to pull it off through email. I bet he’s asking his secretary to write it. However, this comes across as a major point: When attorneys act like this (casual with their co-workers), it actually makes less of a need for me to write blog posts. About them.

In his office, Mr. Clean is sitting, stooped down at nearly a right angle, peering at print-outs of the comments I sent him. As I enter, he slowly (and rather creepily) bends back to vertical position.

“Mr. Paralegal, I do not understand these comments. I asked for comments on [blah blah blah], however all I see on these pages are [bleh bleh bleh.]”

It should also be noted that he never gave me specifics on what to look for in my little mission to the EPA. He only gave me the docket code, which normally is enough to go on. Now, I was given 6000 comments on a rulemaking Mr. Clean does not want at all.

“Well, Mr. Clean, that is the docket number you gave me. And I don’t believe the EPA reading room clerk, who has helped me many times before, would not know how to pull up documents. Perhaps we mistook the wrong docket number?”

Near the end of the day, I tend to get crabby and I can easily shoot my mouth off if I think someone is accusing me of making a mistake. However, I have learned that using the term “we” is very conducive to keeping the peace with the attorney. He doesn’t realize you are still showing that you blame him/her but really are accepting you will share the blame, even if you have had nothing to do with a particular decision. Attorneys need a lot of ego stroking for them to stay comfortable.

Mr. Clean sits there for a moment, continues to look at the comments and ponders. I mean, ‘computes.’

“Okay, Mr. Paralegal, why don’t I challenge you.”

Challenge me? In what? A dual? A game of checkers? My skill of origami? What the hell… Am I no longer an employee but a pet you get to teach tricks to?

“Why don’t you procure for me the brief that created this rulemaking. It is over ten years old, so it will not be on any digital database, such as PACER or WestLaw, but you should be able to find it using your paralegal skills. I need it before I go home.”

“Mr. Clean, I can certainly get the court to pull it from archives, but if you look at your watch, it is 5:02. All courts close at 5.”

“So, call our librarian, Mr. Paralegal!”

The long and short of it is that I did call the librarian of the firm and the librarian, like nearly all other salaried staff, had left for the day at 4:30. I wrote him an email telling him it was insufficient time to be able to do anything about getting the brief tonight but that we could do so first thing in the morning. I just wasn’t up for a fucking challenge at 5 in the afternoon when I could be going home in 30 minutes. And since it’s obvious he still didn’t pick up that Osama was killed and since he has no trace of understanding humor, I decided instead to send him a really old parody post about Osama getting captured instead. Challenge me. I’ll fucking challenge you, Mr. Clean. How do you like that?

Bravo, Pear Bottom

Comments: 3 Comments
Published on: April 26, 2011

So I’ve been a bad paralegal blogger. You see, this is a two-pronged problem here: One is that paralegals are supposed to be helpful to attorneys; Two is that bloggers are supposed to be either insightful or snarky. I can’t say that I’m either of the latter, but I know that I haven’t been the former lately which pulls me to the conclusion that

Unhelpful Paralegal + Blogger with Not Much To Say = Really Lame Guy to Be Around

Of course I don’t believe this to be true, since I do constantly carry my stenopad with confidence and always have my jazz hands ready to be pulled out. However, this past week has just been really boring. That’s what it comes down to. Sorry, folks. No posts when no entertainment. Well, that and my life is starting to be consumed with preparing for this LSAT, the supposed key to all my dreams and wonders. Unless I find “the shoe shine business appealing,” as Pear Bottom puts it.

Ahhh, Pear Bottom… You haven’t really graced many posts in a while, have you? Well, Pear Bottom, why don’t you jump start my blog? I knew you would. Yesterday, as 85% of attorneys here seem to do, he is in a tizzy on the phone. He tells me to get to his office.

Ándele.

Today he has a chunk of cream cheese on his tie. I decide not to point it out. I don’t want to ruin his morning. Or mine.

PB: Paralegal, we have a filing.

Me: I believe that’s what it says on our Shared Calendar, sir. [Not like I need a refresher course in Outlook or a mental aptitude test just yet…]

PB: So, how should we file this?

I hate it when he does this. He’s throwing me a curve ball here. Now is he seriously asking me my own opinion for once or is he testing me? Considering past behavior (reprehensibly presumptuous by all social norms, but perhaps not by attorney norms,) I have to take that he is testing me… As if he already assumes I have decided to become a lawyer and it is his job to hone me for the road ahead. Ass.

Me: Umm… Well, like we normally do? I make five copies of the original, take them to the courthouse and give four of the copies to the clerk for filing and have one time-stamped for our own files?

PB: We already filed it. I sent another paralegal when you were out of town last Friday.

Me: Then what’s the problem? Why do you need me?

PB: Because we forgot to give the court the pleadings.

This completely blows me. This is, if you read the blogs of Paralegal Hell, Grumpy Humbug, or Superlegal Fun, what seems to be a common theme with attorneys as a lack of common communication skills, or even common sense, that nearly all humans attain by the time they have lost all their baby teeth. I begin to wonder how many filings my firm has done and how many Pear Bottom has done. Then how many times a nearly impossible task, which is to send someone to court for filing and return without handing over a document to file with the clerk’s office. Knowing Pear Bottom, I had better not ask the hows, whos, or whys of the situation. He might stomp on the ground and grow horns. You never know…

Me: Okay, I’ll go over to the court right now. [Since it’s obviously an urgent matter…]
PB: No, I’d rather you UPS it.

Guys, this is just getting weirder and weirder. First a freak-out episode on the phone. Then Pear Bottom telling me a filing is needed. Then telling me, without explanation, the motions did not somehow land on the clerk’s desk. Now, he’s asking me, instead of going out to the court to “re-file” the pleadings, just UPS it. I can’t wrap my head around the contradiction here between needing someone to go to the court on Friday and then just “un-urgently” having the documents shipped 4 blocks away on Monday.

Okay, so I printed and stuffed the documents into their nice little UPS legal envelope and sent it on its fun little ground transportation run about a mile down the street. Now, skip forward until today, mainly because the rest of my day was boring (as I precluded at the beginning of the post.) Come UPS’s first round in the morning and a slightly familiar envelope is handed to me. From the printed address label on the front, all I can make out is my own return address. The court’s address has become illegible. The envelope, however, had seen a much better day when it left my hands yesterday.

Ripped edge. Smudge marks that I think might be truck oil. My favorite is the boot mark along the back. The contents of the package are indescribable. Something even I would be ashamed to give a court clerk. Pear Bottom. Oh, Pear Bottom. Do you know how content you make me in this job of absolute desolation? Sometimes… however seldom, I just need to thank you. So, here’s to you, Pear Bottom. Bravo.

Update 2:53pm:

Oh, wait. Did I just almost give Pear Bottom a compliment right there? Just as I finished this post on my non-networked computer, he calls me into his office for some spring cleaning. I had the intention of leaving work early to go look at apartments. Now I get to put this shit away under non-billable time. Bravo? Nope, I still hate you.

Ooh, I'm Pear Bottom! My office has space now!

 

On the Matter of the Theory of the Lawyer

Categories: Day at the Firm
Comments: 2 Comments
Published on: April 20, 2011

It’s always a problem of no.

Those two, little, consecutive letters within the English alphabet seem to trip me up more times at work (and more generally, in life) than the bare fact that my love of vodka spills over the edge of my personal life into other aspects of my life. “No” is the word that SHOULD be created in the depths of my larynx, echoed through the acoustics of my mouth, and then enunciated through my moving lips more often. Especially when four separate attorneys call within a five minute time period asking for their own personal pet projects to be completed at the same time. Instead, the disconnect occurs. Instead of saying perhaps the easiest word in the entire English language (as “no” is the ninth most common first word a baby will say,) I end up saying way too many syllables and way too many words, thereby creating a completely different outcome than the meaning of a simple NO. It would be something like, “Of course I can do that for you,” or “I’d be happy to,” or “Let me drop to my knees and –” Well, you get the picture.

So, it’s of course a day like any other. Waiting around, dawdling until about 3pm when the first call comes in. Well, this call actually has to do with a case I’m on. Hooray. Something worthwhile. Second call is a response of sorts to an email I sent out at 9am… yesterday. “Um, I really didn’t understand what you were saying in your memo, so would you mind coming to my office and explaining it to me with diagrams drawn out in crayon? Preferably in creme brulee and summer harvest. I like those colors.” The last call came surprisingly from Mr. Clean, whom I really had come to believe had been discontinued by the firm and dismantled for system parts in preparation for the pending network OS upgrade from Windows 95 to Windows XP next year. I supposedly was wrong.

“Hello, Paralegal, how are you?”

“I’m doing pretty good [I actually prefer to use poor grammar with Mr. Clean.] Yerself?”

“I am… well. I have a task that requires your immediate assistance.”

“Well, unfortunately right now, I’m –“

“I know that you have experience with PDFs and the building of them from Word documents [It only takes a press of a button…] I would like to ask you to create one of these Adobe-based files out of my social security information and send it to [some strange foreign person whom I am certain does not work for a law firm.]”

“I’d be happy to do this, Mr. Clean. [Dammit! Why didn’t I just say no?? Dammit dammit dammit dammit!!!]”

“Wonderful. I would enjoyably prefer you CC me on the email you forward to [Mr. Weird African Guy Whose Name I Cannot Pronounce.]”

Well, I really would be happy to do this for you, Mr. Clean, because you are only proving to me more that you are a robot. While Artificial Intelligence is capable of logic, it must be first learned. Obviously, Mr. Clean hasn’t been hoodwinked by our fine Nigerian business partners yet.

Then again, can you really steal the identity of an unliving and unloving thing? This theory will obviously be put to the test.

Despite the “when it rains, it pours” axiom I have gotten so used to by the sheer amount of work that drops on my desk suddenly each work day, I’ve come to realize something so much more important to the well-being of myself as well as the course of my future. You see, in a little over a month I will be taking the LSAT. Yes, I know what everyone is thinking… Oh, Jesus, we’re about to lose another one to the Dark Side. But, I really have no interest (at least, as of the posting of this blog) to become a lawyer. Lawyers, as I have mentioned in past posts are by and large the most unhappy and miserable people on the face of this planet. Why would I subject my cynicism to any more darkness?

The truth of the matter is that I want to take the LSAT just for self-satisfaction. Something to do, almost, to see how well I can score. Pear Bottom always boasts about his incredible score and continues to this day to tell me that I would never get into the top 5 schools if I had a score lower than his. And that included Georgetown. And if that’s the case, as Pear Bottom rests his pudgy hands on his widened belly, he gloats that I would never find a job as an attorney at my current law firm. Ho Ho Ho!

Where Pear Bottom is mistaken is that Georgetown is not in the top 5, but is currently ranked 14th. Well, you can’t always win, can you? So, yeah, I’m not even wanting to go to law school. And with attorneys like Pear Bottom giving me that kind of reinforcement, it makes becoming an attorney about as attractive as camel toe. Yet, I’d love to go into his office to tell him I got just one point above his.

Back to the point, the revelation I incurred this past day, which should be oh so fucking obvious to everyone in my position, is that lawyers really don’t do any work. They take the support staff’s work (i.e. paralegal’s) and then they are allowed to step onto the floor of the court and speak with the judge. Now, let me see if I get this right. You go to law school for 2 years, pay out the wazoo, probably go into debt for 20 years, so you get the ability to talk to a judge. Otherwise, you really don’t have to know crap, because you got your army of paralegals to help you convert a Word document into a fucking PDF that only takes a click of a button? It lies along the same principle as the fact that 10-15 years ago we could remember about 100 phone numbers, yet today, because of cell phones and their digital address books, most of us only recall one or two. Shit, I couldn’t even tell you GF’s phone number. That’s an emergency waiting to happen…

All in all, my theory is that you pay your way through law school to inevitably set your brain to atrophy mode. And that’s what it will do. I see all these K Street lawyers in their offices reading, watching YouTube, talking to people on the phone, but I see all of us paralegals racing through the hallways like the Incredible Flash, working so hard at the computer and at the printer, if you start conversation, their head will implode. You ask a lawyer a pretty common sense question and you get hesitation. That’s because his brain has been on idle for so long since he gets all his paralegals do EVERYTHING for him, he actually has to take the time to think if he watched the news last night. Why in God’s name would I ever subject myself to that kind of existence? I already have trouble remembering names. I’d have to start post-it noting everyday objects to remind me what they’re called.

Important Objects to Remember

This Bracket’s Asphyxiating Me

Categories: Day at the Firm
Comments: 3 Comments
Published on: April 15, 2011

There literally is no better feeling than getting to work to see the envelope containing your paycheck invoice on your seat. It’s that feeling of, “Yes! That means I won’t be evicted for the next two weeks!“, “Yes! I can finally pay off a 10% of my anger management sessions!“, “Yes! I can eat something other than Beanie-Weenies and Alpo!” I’m sure the partner across the hall from me (who doesn’t even need an envelope with the tallied amount for the last payment period) has just gotten an email from his financial adviser telling him that because he set aside an automatic transfer of 28% of all new firm shares to be put into venture capital, he now has enough to buy a small Caribbean island. Well, good for him.

But, I’m not him and that is the last thing on my mind. Right now, I have money. I have something that I didn’t have 24, 12, even 2 hours ago. It has magically appeared in my bank account and now I can do whatever I want with it. Mwahahahaha– Oh, wait… Well, shit… Paralegal Hell!! Why did you have to remind me of my eternal responsibilities? Well, thanks SO much. I guess I’ll wait off on buying that one belt for work and keep wearing the same belt I’ve had since I was 14. (Yeah, if only my waist-size was still anywhere near that size. I think it’s doubled since then.)

Still, you all know that feeling of excitement that comes over you when you know you’ve worked well into OT and you’re waiting for that check that will make you feel like Scrooge McDuck diving through a pool of gold coins?

 

Well, at least that’s how I feel. And being at a law firm where you sometimes have to fight tooth and nail to find billable hours to justify your overtime, the big overtime checks can sometimes be a rarity. Well, this was literally the first check I’d received this year for work over 90 hours in two weeks. (Sad, I know, right?) Cumulatively, I had put in 119-and-one-quarter. Bam. I knew I was going to be rich! Richy richy rich ri— What the fuck? What the…. why am I only getting paid like $100 more than what I usually get paid? Where did all that time I put in on the weekends go? Where did all my money go? Where did my fucking gold coin pit go??? 

I seriously have a problem with taxes. And the government. At least right now. Evidently, it doesn’t matter HOW much I work. I am still going to end up with roughly the exact same amount because of what the government decides to take out. I couldn’t give a shit if I see my money at the end of the year. I want it now. I want it now so I can do with it what I please. Government, today is your special SUCK IT day from me and I’m sure a lot of other people out there. You are a sadist for not only taking out more than enough, but also for making your Tax Day happen on Pay Day. You made my frown go from upside down back to down. Bitches.

 

TODAY in Continued Legal Education!

Categories: Uncategorized
Comments: 5 Comments
Published on: April 6, 2011

I am supposed to be learning about Civil Litigation right now. That’s what I got my firm to pay for. I have the headset on. I am listening to the teacher. I have the slides up on the screen. But, in reality, I am playing Tower Defense. Yes, it’s a great time-waster, especially when my conference-call instructor is rambling on about the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, describing her five cats and giving us subsections that don’t match up with the specific rule we are supposed to be discussing.

“Now, Rule 3 says that when you file a complaint, you’ve started a civil action. So, remember that subsection (d) here says you must send it through first class mail, accompanied with another copy and an stamped envelope with the return address on it.”

Evidently, she’s mixing up the rule on commencing civil action with the procedures for a defendent’s waiver regarding a summons. It’s interesting how the legal association I picked to take these courses has marketed this lady as being a member of four separate state bars and the president of some prestigious school in the early 1980s. I’m not really sure how much of this is true, but I try to believe it all. Perhaps time has just worn away a once great mind. Maybe she was an incredible litigator in her day. It’s hard to imagine that at this moment, because I have this PowerPoint presentation both on my screen and in my hand. And I know she’s looking at the presentation at the same time we all are, but suddenly she’ll just randomly veer off topic and start talking about a completely different subject that doesn’t even enter into the realm of necessity.

“I remember all those years ago, when I was just starting in the legal field, there was a clerk in the courthouse named Beth. You didn’t want to cross Beth. She even scared me once, because I gave her too many copies of the brief I guess. So its important to remember here that you need to always go by the rules of the court. But, then again, Beth had some sort of nervous breakdown and now I think she’s in a mental hospital somewhere… So, let’s continue on to what different types of counterclaims there are.”

I swear, I’m relaying what she’s speaking. Verbatim.

This woman kind of reminds me of my mom… One of those ladies that makes you really wonder what color the fireworks are in their head. The other day, my mom was trying to make me feel better about my next oral surgery and very matter of factly tells me:

“Last time I went to get my bridge worked on, they took the thing out of my mouth and this terrible smell came out. I mean, JUST terrible! They then pulled a piece of meat out. Then I remembered we had filet Mignon for dinner last week.”

Yeah, I know. Gross. But, that’s my mom. I think with age, people (and in my estimation, women especially) gradually lose control of their verbal filter. After 60, communication is straight up stream of consciousness… or maybe unconsciousness. I’ve seen it happen with my mom and it’s evident this woman is well on her way. It looks like we’re all on the verge of a Chatty Cathy pandemic..

 

 

Symptoms May Vary

 

‘Tis the Season

Categories: Uncategorized
Comments: 1 Comment
Published on: April 5, 2011

It started out like this last year, I remember it quite well. Well enough that once it was over, I immediately began fearing it’s coming for the next year. I am on my morning Metro train at 9:40am. Any other day, I’d have missed the morning rush and would be one of about five people in this car: four of us being the late-comers to work that will soon be chastised by their coworkers for their tardiness; the other one being the unmistakable window-licking tourist. Today, as it will be for another 89 days or so, I will be sharing my once peaceful train ride with an extra 200 window-licking tourists.

This is because at the dawn of civilization (circa 1900,) the Japanese were invited to come plant a bunch of cherry blossom trees all around Washington, DC. Fast forward a century and they are all over the place. And, my my my, they make our country’s monuments even better to check out. Which is why tourists from other nations decide DC is the best place to take their vacation. From about April until June we will roughly receive a billion tourists to our town because the trees just make our monuments so much more damn beautiful. It’s also inevitable that during this time, I will cross paths with each of these billion lost and confused tourists.

Today, I am surprised to find a seat on the train. Well, perhaps not as surprised as the large, amorphous tourist whose girth has overflown from “it’s” side of the seat onto the vacant side. I made no hesitation to make my seat on half of it’s leg. Curiously, though, it didn’t seem to mind, since there was no movement or reaction, not even a twitch. It just continued to stare out at the budding cherry blossoms surrounding the Tidal Basin around Jefferson’s Memorial. Something made me think it may have been salivating and I really wanted to tell it that the trees in fact produced no cherries. But, I didn’t want to ruin it’s trip.

It’s this time of the year that actually makes me want to be at work as quickly as humanly possible.

Now, the problem with living in a town frequented by tourists is that there is an overwhelming feeling permanent residents get that we plainly do not exist or that we are a pseudo-attraction at a zoo or something. Almost like we all are frozen in one of those dioramas the tourists would find in the Smithsonian Natural History Museum and we depict human life, but, in reality, we really aren’t there.

Many towns seem to revolve around their tourism. Their economic heartbeat comes from the money brought in from visitors. I’m not sure if DC would necessarily be subjugated to the same live-or-die scenario if suddenly tourism fell off. After all, it is the seat of American government. However, I am probably not alone in thinking that most residents of the District would have no qualms in seeing one less group of bass-ackward tourists all on their Segways with that one son who just can’t figure the dang machine out.

Click to See Stupid Segway Tourists


So, if you come to DC, here’s a small list of things that YOU can do to not beleaguer the actual people who live in the city:

  1. When using public transportation, traveling through a mall, going anywhere, do not become an ESCA-LEFTER: One who stands to the left side of an escalator, not realizing that the right side is for standing, the left side is for walking. We could give two shits less if you and your chum are having a fascinating convo about that neat-o IMAX presentation you saw on Black Holes at the Aerospace Museum, other people have shit to do and you’re blocking them from being able to do it.
  2. If you really think you’re part of the cool crowd, wearing one of those CIA or FBI hats you just bought at one of the ten thousand sidewalk carts in DC will prove to us all that you are not. Take it off and keep it in your bag until you get home and can surprise Cletus and Krystal with your mad talent.
  3. Do NOT bring a whistle to round up your troops. Our eyes are already blinded by the fact you make your group of middle-schoolers wear matching neon-green t shirts so you don’t lose them. I’m sure you don’t know how to pronounce ‘collateral damage’, but that’s what you’re doing to us every time you blow that thing.
  4. Fanny pack. Don’t. Just don’t.
  5. We actually keep this place pretty clean. See that trashcan? I know you do, because there’s one within ten steps of where ever you stand in the District. Put your soggy chili cheese dog wrapper in that. Not on the sidewalk.
  6. If you see us walking faster than you, don’t ask for directions. And if you ask for a picture, we’ll take your camera and keep on walking. Seriously.

In sum, I want to give you the message of my rant:

doing overtly obvious things like these will not only aggravate the piss out of everyone around you, but (and I think you would have really thought about this before you bought two dozen bright orange TEAM SALVATION GOES TO WASHINGTON! t shirts,) you become an easy target for crime. Even if the crooks don’t pin you out at first, perhaps your already annoying nature will make them think twice about what ever it is they do.

 

April Foolery

Categories: Uncategorized
Comments: No Comments
Published on: April 1, 2011

And You Will Know Me By The Trail Of Dead I.T. Guys

Categories: Uncategorized
Comments: No Comments
Published on: March 25, 2011

I intended to continue my mini-saga of My Biggest Weekness, which I guarantee Part II will be out within the next 24 hours and all the gritty details of my toothless grin will come out into the open! (Wow, that really sounds like, “Next, on The Young and the Restless.”) I also would like to announce the possibility of a complete renovation to this site. So much so, there may even be a new address! I will keep you informed. But for now, I need to get this off my chest while it’s still singeing a hole in the middle of it.

Like most of the Information Technology support staff that I’ve ever encountered, our IT guy at our firm is, well, cantankerous. 24/7. Not only that, but he puts us paralegals on perhaps the bottom of the priority list every single time we have an issue. This is because of three assumptions I’ve created in my head:

 

  1. The end-of-the-year performance review is essentially graded by the partners and higher level associates. Therefore, if the IT Guy is not at their beck-and-call to fix the emergency of “Why is my computer screen so dark?” (“Your monitor is off, sir.”) then he doesn’t get a good bonus/raise.
  2. There are ten paralegals who are constantly needing updates and having computer issues, mainly because the firm is too parsimonious to upgrade the PCs and get us AT LEAST Windows Vista. There is only one IT guy.
  3. The IT Guy used to be obese. Now he is a string bean and thinks he’s hot shit.

So, IT Guy constantly pisses me off. For one, as is true with Point #1, it takes him all day, sometimes multiple days, for him to get back to me. This complaint of mine is gimongous, because much to his own chagrin of the paralegals constantly pestering his scrawny ass, we are the ones that do ALL OF THE WORK for the attorneys! An attorney needs an ECF done? Who do they call? An attorney needs documents to be scanned and added into our terrible database client? Who do they call? An attorney needs a burrito to be ordered from Chipotle down the street? Who do they call? So, as you can see, it’s the paralegals, not the attorneys, who should really have first dibs on the IT Guy’s time. Somehow, this change just hasn’t happened yet.

Another thing that really chaps my khakis is that when he remotely logs into my PC (which, by itself kind of annoys me… he is too lazy to walk ten offices down to sit at my desk so I can talk to him while he’s fiddling away,) without fail he will close every window I’m working on. The impetus for this post was that he logged into my computer to install Adobe Flash because I needed it … for … um … YouTube research. I had been asked to research the news about Japan’s nuclear infrastructure and write a memo concerning the subject. I was halfway through when IT Guy virtually pushed me aside (no pun intended) and took over my cursor. Really, all he needed to do was to type in a password into a box and hit OKAY. Instead, what does he do? Yeah, you guessed it.

This time I actually call him at his desk and yell at him, “Why the hell did you do that??”

“Well, didn’t you save it before I logged in?”

“No! Why would I do that?”

“Your training instructor told you to back everything up on the server and to set every document for auto-save. Or were you just not listening?”

Oh. My. God. Training was like a year and a half ago when I first started and was a blizzard of knowledge about the firm. My complaint to my boss didn’t fly either. She just said that there must have been a reason that he needed to clear the windows. And now I get to retype this damn memo that you deleted because you wanted to see the desktop. I could be playing Desktop Tower Defense the rest of the afternoon.

Oh, and hey, guy, I know you technogeeks love your acronyms. Well, I just printed one up and stuck it on my wall just for you:

 

Effuit

 

Directions For Sticking Head In Oven

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Published on: March 15, 2011

If you have had the chance to read back on a couple of my earlier posts, you might have come across the part where I talk about a nose hair incident. I try to play it off as if it isn’t me who is the subject of the story. Well, guess the fuck what. It is me. It happened right around the time when I first became a paralegal. Before that, I had been an internal consultant for the firm, working on a pre-litigation matter for five months prior. I bitched and whined enough that they gave me a full-time job with benefits and the stellar title of “litigation paralegal.” It would only take a couple of weeks for me to realize the true worth of that title.

 

The first case assigned to me was where I was also introduced to my first (and, probably, last) boss. Pear Bottom.

Pear_bottom_2a

 

 

I worked with a pretty cool girl on this case who was a few years younger than me. Hell, everyone at that time was a few years younger than me. I felt like a complete kindergartener because every paralegal was like 3-6 years younger than me AND knew what they were doing. Anyhow, this one case was about to go to trial and there was a TON of evidence. It was ridiculous for how small a matter this was, how much each side was able to dig up during discovery. Not only that, how many copies of each binder the partners wanted us to make. I recently oversaw the off-site storage of all these files and I think I counted ten copies of each set. I think there were like, at max, four attorneys addressing this case. It still to this day beats the shit out of me why attorneys think they need all of these precautionary copies. “Look out, one of the others might without warning dissolve into the ethers!”

 

Pear Bottom rode us hard in the final weeks leading up to the trial. This was still while I was actually enthusiastic about my new title and, ahem, “ready to make a difference in the work place!” Please say some of you have gotten that feeling as you start your new job… With this feeling, I really didn’t notice how much of a douche bag ass Pear Bottom was being, but Team Member Paralegal was certainly pointing it out. After every call she’d get from him, she’d say, pretty audibly, “what a rancid dick!” During preparation, he would call us on our phones and ask us to trek into his office after he had received one of the 600 page binders we’d assembled for his majesty. On his desk, it is turned to page number 473 and he is squinting down at something on the perfectly printed page.

 

PB (after looking up at us): “Good job on the five volumes of binders, but did you fail to pick up the enormous error on the fourth page of the table of authorities of the exhibit to the pleading for the respondent’s request for motion to quash the defense of the statement for the recipient of the medal of honor?”
US: “Ummmm… no. What did we miss?”
PB: “Of course you didn’t. [Exasperated and overly dramatic sigh.] Middle of the page. Fourth paragraph. The font seems to be smaller than the rest of the binder. You know what? Make the rest of the paragraphs that size. Yes, I like that size. Go fix it now. Please and thank you.”

 

So this was how it went down pretty much all the time. Thinking back and remembering how I tried so hard to please him makes me kinda chuckle now.

 

Time for trial finally comes. Pear Bottom and Team Member Paralegal are preparing to fly off to Blankity-Blank for the trial. I’m to “man the forts,” which later meant do absolutely nothing, since they would have all one gazillion binders with them. We are all meeting in Team Member Paralegal’s office before their flight getting the logistics down and I ask, “So, PB, what is the time frame I would expect for you guys to call if you need me?”

 

He looks at me, hesitantly, and then gives me that kind of slow pat on the shoulder that has enough force to let you know to move out the room with him.

 

“Let me talk to you for a minute.”

 

Outside in the hall, he looks at me very seriously. I mean, very seriously, and says, “You have a hair coming out of your nose that’s almost down to your upper lip.”

 

My eyes could not have gotten wider. No one in my entire life has ever told me something like that, much less a boss I barely knew. And not only that, but I’ve never had a nose hair come blatantly out of my nose. Not that I know of…

 

PB: “I swear, you need to go to the bathroom and fix it.”

 

So, I walk-run to the nearest men’s room to scope it out. Guess what, there is no nose hair. This, I swear. I feel like I had been punk’d or something. But by a District of Columbia bar certified attorney?? Is that some sort of sick joke? I even asked Team Member Paralegal and she told me there was none. If there was, she would have noticed. So, still to this day, I have no clue why Pear Bottom decided to pull this weird prank on me. Or even if it was a prank. Hazing maybe? I don’t know. Do I really want to spend that much energy on figuring out ‘office comedy?’

Spam A Lot

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Published on: March 14, 2011
This week is gonna be busy. I can’t really get into the nitty gritty details of why, but there’s a lot of shifting. People shifting places, offices switching hands and entire stacks of casework that have become part of the native landscape, dare I say even office landmarks, are being displaced and/or condensed. I am one of the lucky ones who gets to move. They called us volunteers in a recent meeting and applauded how we stepped forth, like we were going to the frontlines of a world catastrophe to help out. I really can’t remember whether I can call my move voluntary or involuntary, though.  I remember I had an alterior motive. Which, of course, is the important part.

 

I have been hawking to get my old office back. When I say office, yes, I mean four full walls, attached to a ceiling and a floor, with a door. Before you go any further in thinking I’m a complete asshole because you may work in a bullpen and have to not only listen to the people around you but also look at them while they look back at you, I do want to say that the office does come with a few issues:

 

  1. It is down the hall from Pear Bottom and Mr. Clean. Like screaming distance. Although I can’t imagine Mr. Clean to scream.
  2. It is right next to the Lunch Room. That means from the hours of noon to about four, there is no silence to be found. At least it’s a good way to catch up on what’s going on with Administrative Assistant A’s cat, Boopsie. But, the worst is that all the food filters and STAYS in that office all day long. People really like curry, too.
  3. Added to this, the vending machine runs right up against the wall where my back is. This is especially thrilling when a candy bar gets stuck. You can guess what happens to the particular project I’m working on, though.
  4. When I have a coworker working with me in that office, there is NO space. I need a lot of space for my, uh, shit. Unfortunately, Cohabitation Mate and myself are going to run into some issues with this.
That’s just a few off the top of my head. I think it also floods when it torrentially rains. But, I did have an alterior motive to being a volunteer. I was hoping, since Cohabitation Mate is now on a part-time basis, I could have him moved out to my current cage. So, essentially, we would swap out. Did I mention I am pure evil? Really, I just miss having a door. But, moreso than that, I will again be within the orbit of the rest of the paralegals, so I won’t feel so… out of place.

 

So, I am currently getting ready for my move. I am organizing my file folders on my computer. Which is very important, I think. I just peeked inside our firm’s spam folder and was surprised to even find one email. Evidently, our office has one of the best blockers out there, because it knows to throw out the Monster.com emails blanketing lawyers, suggesting they throw their current occupation away for something much more extravagent. Perhaps a potential opportunity as a Rite-Aid cashier? Or how about a career changer like a Janitor at Sign Engineering Corp? Well, only if you’re a Spanish-speaking attorney, my friend! Or, how about Miss Cleo arising out of obscurity to offer her psychic abilities to help the courtroom counsel? Okay, I made that one up, but you get the point. I’m obviously very busy getting ready for this move. So, I’d better get back to it.

 

DAILY REASON FOR LIVING RATIO: 5.4
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