Legal Mystenigmary

The Psychicness of Ordinary Things

I swear -- sometimes the internet is the most clever little thing. So, I'm sitting in my office, panicking about the depositions I'm supposed to take in approximately two and a half minutes of two people from Puerto Rico who speak no English (I, of course, like a good little private school girl, speak no Spanish whatsoever -- however, if we ever need to depose someone who speaks Latin, I'm all over that! So useful...) -- really really really don't want to take these depositions, partly because I got no sleep last night, due to an insane urge to attempt these nutty sudoku puzzles that are suddenly all the rage (I'd never heard of them until last week, when first He-Who-Is-Irksome mentioned them, then they popped up at a post here, and then I started feeling like the last kid picked for kickball 'cause I hadn't tried them yet) which ended in me in a rage at 3am yelling about a surplusage of 5s, and partly due to an overwhelming, paralyzing fear that, due to the language barrier and translator's presence, my usually borderline-intelligible questions will become Jabberwocky and it'll be an enormous disaster.

So, in my last few minutes as an actual employed attorney, I decided to relax by playing with the internet and checking my sitecounter. I noticed someone had gotten here with a search on blogsearch.google.com (I did not know that even existed -- those wild and crazy google guys!) and I happen upon this link. Click it. Seriously. It's hilarious. I now feel much better about the fact that I will invariably ask twenty-nine questions that lead to blank stares, totally bizarre responses, and mass confusion.

I don't get no respect!

Ya know, I'm aware that I'm young and all. I'm aware that, in the litigation world, you can judge how important a firm believes a case to be by how senior the handling attorney is. Therefore, I'm not surprised when, in a case where I represent the sixth-party defendant who was brought in on only the most tenuous theory of liability, none of the other involved attorneys expect me to take the lead on anything -- and trust me, I'm not complaining about that. But. There is a difference between being less concerned about my position based on a recognition that "my"/my client's involvement in the case is minimal and being completely, flagrantly and totally dismissive and disrespectful because you think I don't have to be taken seriously because I'm junior. The latter, of course, has just occurred. In this instance, my client has another attorney representing him on a claim consolidated with the matter in which my firm represents him. Because there's approximately eight hundred and forty-two parties in this case (okay, more like seven, but whatever) and twice that many witnesses, experts, etc., scheduling depositions has been difficult. Finally, after four months and two scheduling conferences, we hammered out the schedule for the parties' depositions. Please note that my client's other attorney did not care to participate in this process. So, the letter goes out saying "[Client's] deposition will occur on [this date], as agreed during the scheduling conferences." Great. Perfect.

But then. The next day, a letter arrives from Client's other attorney, saying "Because I am a Very Important Attorney, I am unable to attend Client's deposition on the date scheduled. This deposition is now rescheduled for the day after the day on which it was originally scheduled." Which, I believe, is in and of itself fairly rude -- when you're dealing with a whole passel of other attorneys, you generally do not take it upon yourself to single-handedly reschedule things they all have to attend. But the larger problem is that I absolutely have to be at Client's dep and I'm not available on Summarily-Rescheduled Day. So I call Other Attorney's office -- shock! He's not in! I have to speak to his secretary. I patiently explain that his office should have checked with me before rescheduling Client's dep and as it is, I'm not available on the new day. Other Attorney's Secretary, probably from over-long association with Other Attorney, rudely and summarily said, essentially, "I don't care, find someone else in your firm to go or don't attend, but we're not rescheduling."

WHAT? I'm still reeling. I mean, that's not even common normal-people courtesy, much less the heightened level of professional courtesy that's typical in my jurisdiction. Ew. Horrible little man. My only consolation is, to grossly misquote (I think) Calvin Coolidge, "I may be junior, but in a few years, I won't be. In a few years, however, you'll still be ugly." So there.

Perversity

(Originally posted 11/17/05 at 12:32pm, and reposted following spelling-error edits.)

I think I might be certifiable. So, as those of you (yes, all two of you!) who have kept up with the saga of He-Who-Is-Irksome know, my "love life" of late has consisted of much frustration over the inability to get a straightforward declaration of intent/interest out of the child, and over the general elusiveness of the He.

Well. At the high-school best friend's wedding this weekend (which, by the way, was a much more enjoyable event that the hell of preparations led me to think it would), I met a boy. actually, re-met, is more like it, because he's a cousin of Best Friend who I've met at various family events over the last ten years, because I sort of adopted Best Friend's family as my own and was always over there. What I never knew was that he may have had a tiny little crush on yours truly in that time... but no one ever told me -- even though, apparently, the night before the wedding, he mentioned it to Best Friend and Momma Best Friend. I mean, come on! I know Best Friend may have had a few other things on her mind, what with the whole "getting married tomorrow" thing, but would it have been too much to send a tiny little text message? I hate not knowing things.

Anyway. So -- we chatted, we drank, we danced, we drank (six hours of open bar, people. Dear god. Much wasted-ness). and we made out. in the post-reception bar, in an (we thought) empty ballroom of the hotel (only to be caught by Best Friend's younger brother, to my never-ending embarrassment)... etc. Not a whole lot, but enough to know that, hmm, this is an interesting idea with potential potential. (yes, I meant to repeat there). So, that night ended on an up-note of "cool, this was fun, and you have my number, so we'll see...." The next day, he called. Just to say hi. Okay. Last night, he called again, just to chat -- which we did, actually rather enjoyably, for quite some time. This morning, he send a little "good morning, have a good day" text.

I want to run. Apparently, I actually cannot handle the straightforward declaration of interest. It makes me squeamish, like they've walked out of their house with, like, their breakfast remnants on their face. Instead of reacting with the "oh my god, how adorable" that that same scenario in a friend's story or chick flick would get, I want to hide and never answer the phone again.

WHAT is wrong with me? Am I secretly the star of my own reality show called "How to Remain Single and Alone Forever and Die with Only Your Cat For Company, Who Will Turn on You When You Get Too Dead To Feed Them Anyway?"

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The Art of the Girlie Scream, Part II

EWEWEWewewewewewewewewewew! and EW! <shudder> OK - so, I'm in my office this morning, frantically working on an appellate brief that is due at noon and which I have completely ignored all weekend since my best friend was finally getting married. Suddenly, I feel some light disturbance on the top of my head and figure it's my hair sliding across itself or something. OR NOT. Three seconds later, the largest spider in the entire world (OK, maybe that's an exaggeration, but it was definitely the size of a sand dollar) lands on my desk and skittles into a file -- so, of course I scream.  again. for a long, loud time. and run to get a boy to kill it (thank GOD none of the partners were in yet, so I just got to look stupid in front of one of the law clerks, who I think believes me to be mentally sub-par anyway!).

EW! and on a Monday morning. That's just cruel.

I Would Procrastinate on the Way to A Fire, I Swear

Where I practice, the procedural rules require that opposition to motions for summary judgment be filed and served within 10 days of the motion's return date. Therefore, when I get a summary judgment motion in from an opposing party, I count backwards to the 10th day before the return date and put a post-it on the file with that date.

Today, I learned that this system has a fatal flaw: The mail is not delivered the same day you send it. In fact, more often than not, the mail is delivered three or four days after you send it. Therefore, when I put a post-it on a file two months ago that said "Nov. 9," and proceeded to ignore that file until LAST NIGHT, at which point I said "hmm, Nov. 9 is tomorrow, I should look at this," I effectively insured I would have a heinous, frantic twenty-four hours. Which, in my usual mature way, I have since dealt with by: a) drinking three Red Stripes while freaking out on the phone to my little sister, currently a 1L, so she would understand what she was getting into, 2) drinking another Red Stripe on the phone to my friend whose wedding I have to be in this weekend, 3) watching "Gilmore Girls," 4) going to bed early "so I could get up early and start work when I feel fresh," 5) getting up at 8:30am, 6) getting to work at 9:30am after a fight with my shrinking wardrobe (note to self: sitting in office chair all freaking day long is NOT a good way to keep that girlish figure!), 7) reading updates on favorite blawgs, 8) posting on own blog, 9) engaging SSP in nonsensical conversation purely to avoid writing Damn Brief and causing him to wonder, once again, why it is that I haven't been "let go" yet, and 10) making hourly trips to Starbucks.

And now it's 2:20. And I have one hour and forty minutes until Damn Brief has to be faxed. And I STILL cannot think of any legal basis on which to oppose the motion. And my instinct is that it's not permitted to write a brief in which you say "Defendant X opposes Plaintiff Y's motion on the grounds that my senior partner told me to." Yeah, no.

God help me.

No, REALLY, HELP ME!!

Rules I Would Make If I Were Queen:

1. All brides who demand that their bridesmaids have standing tanning salon appointments for the month before their NOVEMBER wedding in order to maintain a "cappucino" tan are required to set up a "Skin Cancer Removal Fund" for said bridesmaids. Or have hot pokers stuck under their oval-shaped-with-crystal-decal-swarovski-crystal-only-please-french-manicured fingernails for the duration of said bridesmaids' lengthy tanning appointments. Either way.

2. All college best friends are required to live within a five-mile radius of each other at all times so that all weekends are as amusing and happy as the last one. No exceptions, no excuses.

3. All impossible-to-accomplish-because-no-court-ever-said-that research assignments that one has thrown across the room on Friday afternoon shall disappear, never to return, by Monday morning so as not to completely destroy the week ab initio (yes, as Queen, I do still plan to be a law geek.)

4. If you spend $20 on fresh flowers, which you never normally do but made an exception this once because you're having houseguests, and the florist swears that the flowers just came and will last for at least a week, and they die a horrible, floppy death two days later, it is permissible hex the florist.

5. If, at the end of a week, you have only kept track of a total of 25 billable hours, but you know you were busy every minute of the 55 hours you spent at work, with no lunches, that week, you may include an entry for "30 hours - running around like chicken without head re: all appellate briefs for Partner X." It's fine.

5a. If, by the end of two weeks,  you have only 32 billable hours tracked, but did in fact work all weekend and stay in the office until 8 every night, you may throw a tantrum to your senior partner in which you demand that the billable hour system be shot, hung, tarred and feathered, drawn and quartered, and otherwise put out of its misery.

Much Sound and Fury Signifying Very Little At All

which, of course, signified absolutely nothing. I refer, of course, to the much-feared meeting with Irksome, in which I had vowed to do the sayonara bit. And, of course, I did no such thing. Oops. Instead, we had a lovely, nonsensical chat for about an hour, and as he turned to leave, I (apparently channeling Mandy Moore) turned and yelled "wait, don't go!" yes, I'm embarrassed. Anyway, he walked back over and I explained that I had in fact asked him to meet so that I could be angry with him. (For future reference: this approach has an adverse effect on one's credibility, as it causes one to appear, um, deranged.) To give him due credit, he took that annoucement rather well and found a place for us to sit so I could explain at length the source of such anger.

And if I was less bad at relationship-y, emotional-feeling-bla-bla stuff , I would a) have been able to actually give him some kind of clear statement of facts and feelings that would allow an actual concrete resolution of my problems (which leads to the question, is there such a thing, and the answer, no); and b) be able to now give a better explanation as to what exactly happened. But, as it stands, I can't, and the best I can do is say that we had a less-nonsensical-than-before chat and I now feel like I can just be myself with him. And I feel a little less strongly about the "he sucks" platform. So, it's good. Thank you, all the same, to LA Lawyer and my face-to-face friends for the encouragement to cut him loose -- but, like the song says, "listen to your heart before you tell him goodbye." Mine said "NOoooooOoooo!" So, yeah. Perhaps I'm weak, perhaps I should be more demanding, perhaps I'll be back here in a week more firmly convinced of his suck-age than ever before -- but for now, we're good. I'm good. And, I have not one but two best friends coming to visit in about five hours and much vodka will be consumed. And, there, I am the best of all.

(In other news, just to let y'all know, if I don't post again, it's because my secretary has killed me and buried the body far far away. Apparently, when I think I'm being nice by doing as much of my own copying, filing, etc. as I can, it's making her nuts. Earlier this afternoon, she walked by me in the mailroom to find me postage-ing my own mail (there must be a better verb for that) and I swear, the thought bubble over her head was something like "Must. Kill. Now." Good lord -- who would have thought that being helpful was so infuriating? Then again, it probably has something to do with job security, and I actually am be unhelpful? Offices are confusing.)

No Babies, No Mommas, Just Drama

So... after thinking long and hard (read: after He-Who-Is-Irksome did not call for two weeks then randomly called with no offer of a plan in mind), I have decided that it is time to explain to He the the following things:
1) I cannot behave as if I'm totally cool with the situation when in reality I'm totally freaked out by the situation (this, I know, is a quote from a TV show.. or maybe a movie? but I can't remember which one);

2) It is not OK to not call for two weeks when the last thing I've heard from you on a thursday night is "yup, I'll call you when I know how the weekend shapes up";

3) sometimes it is just impossible to get past certain feelings - for him, apparently, it's the feeling that for whatever reason, he must always be dating other people that are not me, and for me, it's the feeling that he's not dating me because, even though he vehemently denied it, he's just not that into me -- WHICH IS FINE! Good god - at this point, I would be overjoyed to actually hear those words come out of his mouth (well, no, actually, I'd be sad, because who wants the person they like to not be into them?) just because it would finally be a straight, comprehensible, clear answer -- as it currently stands, I'm so utterly in the dark that I feel like I've fallen down a mine shaft;

and finally, 4) at the present time, I just don't know how to have a friendship with him. Full stop.

So, I called him last night in order to set up a "sit-down" so I could tell him all this to his face -- see, the face-to-face thing is important because I have a feeling that the end result of all of this is him saying "well, that's too bad, sorry you feel that way" and then not talking to me for a year (I can be so precise about this because, surprise surprise, we've already been here before once. Hmm, perhaps that should have been my first clue...), and that's a sucky exchange to have over the phone. (Yes, I just used the [putative] word "sucky" -- hey, if I have the emotional maturity of a 13-year-old, surely I can talk like one too!) So, we have a plan (irony - for the first time ever, there is an actual plan to see each other. And, likely, it'll be the last time I see him. on purpose, anyway.) - for tomorrow. He just called to confirm that we do indeed have a plan for tomorrow. Oddly, although I didn't actually say "We need to get together because we have to talk," he seems to know somehow that this is not a fun "yay let's hang out" meeting. The funny thing is, up until the minute he called, I was feeling good about the plan -- as in, great, finally, there'll be something resembling closure and I can just close the door on this and stop constantly ripping off the band-aid -- but now, I'm just very very sad. so much so that I'm thinking of calling the whole thing off. But I really really really DON'T ever want to have to hang out on top of my cellphone for two weeks hoping he'll remember I'm alive -- I've never been that girl, and I don't intend to start now, because it's pathetic. And it's causing me to use an obscene number of italics. And, as anyone who's read "Emily of New Moon" knows, they're evil. (Or was it "Emily Climbs?" anyway. Probably the only person who will get that reference is the college BFF, who doesn't read this because I refuse to tell her the address for the "mysterious" blog -- I know, I'm so mean.)

WHY do boys suck? why? and how do we make it stop?