Blow out
“The only times I really wish I had a boyfriend? When I am moving or my car breaks down.”
Red said this to me a few years ago while we were in the process of carrying (okay, pushing, OKAY…dragging) her large sofa down the hallway of her apartment complex. It was a fit of human strength to hoist it into the elevator only to have it take it out ONE FLOOR UP. Yes, the old “moving on up” move that is a huge gargantuan pain in the ass.
But, I digress. Red is incredibly independent – she has tons of friends, she functions quite well on her own, has a full social calendar – a lot like myself actually. But yet those two times in life are the times when being alone and being a girl can really stink.
Tonight, as I cruised home from the gym, patting myself on the back for actually going and picturing a frozen pizza, I heard a loud THUMP (sorry for the use of caps tonight, yall) and the thumping continued and my car, all of a sudden, felt very weird. Now, most of you have probably figured out that I blew a tire, but I honestly thought my muffler had fallen off.
Quick aside that demonstrates how I am not so good with the cars. On the way to work one morning, I noticed my car sounded awful as I merged onto the highway. I couldn’t make my car go fast, really, it just sounded as if it was in pain. I freaked out the entire 25 minute ride to work and then eventually made it in to work. I called Cheeky Co-worker who was on vacation in full scale panic mode. He recommended an auto mechanic across the street from the courthouse so I called. The mechanic got on the line and I described the problem. I said, “I don’t know, it sounded like a transmission problem.” Go ahead; ask me if I even know what the transmission does. Or where it is – the front? I don’t know. But it sounds car-smart, right? He asks what type of car I drive. I tell him and he then asks if my car is automatic. Err…it is regular? Apparently in girlspeak, that means yes it is automatic. I think? Oh, I looked it up and that is right. He manages not to laugh in my face after the “regular” comment and he asks me if I am sure I had my car in the right gear when I got on the highway. I pause and then finally admit that no, I can’t confirm that I checked what gear I was in but really, it couldn’t be something that simple? I mean, I am not that dumb, am I? Rather than answer, he tells me to bring my car by and he will call after looking into the problem. About an hour after I drop it off, he calls. He’s run some tests, driven it around, looked under the hood…he is clearly not wanting to tell me just how dumb I am. I tell you this to give you some context as to why I am utterly horrible about anything car-related. Car trouble renders me helpless.
So, picture Helpless Jersey, freaking out as I try to cross four lanes of Highway 66 traffic and make it to the shoulder before my car blows up because that is literally what I am thinking is about to transpire. I make it to the shoulder, take a few deep breaths, open the door just wide enough to confirm my rear tire is indeed flat, and call Sister in panic. Because if you can’t make your boyfriend come pick you up on the side of the road, you can at least make family, right? She reminds me of my handy Triple A membership (Thank you, Mr. Jersey for recognizing that if there is one thing your daughter will also need is someone to bail her out of a car crisis!). I climb over to the passenger side of my car, because it somehow feels safer than the driver’s side since cars are roaring past me at speeds in excess of 65 MPH. I explained the situation to the very nice operator – I handle all of his questions with ease. I give him an exit number! And a distance from that exit! I give him the direction I was headed! I give him my car’s make and model! I explain I do not have a spare but something called a donut! I am totally in control, I think to myself, completely pressed up against the passenger door, until he asks me if my tires have interlocking lug nuts. Come again? He says “basically do you have anything fancy on your car, like rims, that would make it hard to remove the tire?” Gotcha – nope, no interlocking lug nuts to worry about.
While he is explaining that my estimated wait time is an hour and fifteen minutes, there is a knock on my car window. I scream, and now have to explain to the Triple A Operator that I am fine, totally fine, just someone stopping to help, Oh he looks like Highway Patrol and not an axe murderer, yep his vehicle looks official, Okay, I will call you back, Mr. Triple A Operator.
And since I survived the whole experience to write about it, you can rest assured that it was NOT an axe murderer but an actual highway patrol person who wanted to know if I was okay. I pointed to the flat tire and he said, “Well, I can change that if you have a spare.” And so he did. The whole ordeal really only set my drive home back about ten minutes.
The only downside is the now imminent purchase of a new tire. I had planned some very fun things for my weekend - Seeing a Journey cover band! Shopping at a sidewalk sale! Running six miles! Taking my dry cleaning! (okay, yeah, that’s no fun) but now, I will be buying a tire.
Oh, and I continue to wish I had a boyfriend to deal with the fall out. Guys are inherently born with knowledge about car parts. Guys can talk intelligently about tires the way I talk about shoes. And even though I wouldn’t trade my knowledge about shoes, I could use a little more tread know-how.
Irrationality Abounds
Over dinner last night, at this delightful outdoor café in downtown DC, on what was the most perfect spring night (thank you, Weather gods for finally blessing the hotseat of the government with consecutive days of sunshine) the conversation turned to food idiosyncrasies. And, quickly, my friend Red revealed that I had most people beat with my odd food quirks. I don’t eat white food. Well, let me back up. There are a lot of foods that I don’t eat and after some analysis in college, I realized I really don’t like white food. When people learn of this, they are often fascinated and engage in a “What will Jersey eat” type game to try and rationalize my white food weirdness. Saturday’s night version went something like this:
“Do you eat eggs?”
No.
“Do you eat white rice?”
Only if there is some sort of sauce on it. I don’t like plain white rice. But I do eat basmati rice and risotto.
“Do you eat cottage cheese?”
HELL No.
“Sour cream?”
Nope.
“But you just ate an entire cheese board. Full of white cheese.” (This was when the questions started to sound more like accusations).
Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make sense. But I love cheese and eat all kinds.
And this is when the Inquirer turned to the rest of the group in all seriousness and said, “She is a completely irrational freak. I love it.”
Since the Inquirer was actually a guest from out of town, his friend yelled at him for being rude. “Don’t say that to her! Jersey, you are not an irrational freak.”
But I wasn’t offended. I actually felt relieved. There are some things that I do that are completely without reason. And that’s okay. Maybe because the supposed reason of the law governs my professional life, I have all this pent up irrationality. And it comes out in these little food quirks or the fact that I read all magazines from the back. I know everyone has their own idiosyncrasies but sometimes we drive ourselves crazy trying to change them or explain them or justify them. In one simple statement, this out of towner, who had known me for less than an hour, had told me exactly what I needed to hear. I am a completely irrational freak. But people love me anyways.
Dilemma
So, I have a dilemma. As you know, I live with a Roommate. Who has a Boyfriend. Roommate and Roommate Boyfriend’s have an up and down type relationship. Right now, it appears they are very up. Which means they spend a lot of time together at our apartment.
And about this apartment. I love my apartment. It is in the absolute perfect location – just a few blocks to the Metro, just a few blocks to the grocery store, around the corner for multiple bars….really, the location is absolutely perfect. And while I would love a bigger closet (and the corresponding freedom to purchase more shoes), I am willing to keep my suits in the dining room closet in order to keep the awesome location.
Now, a little about our landlord. She is…well, she is a little nutty. When we first moved in, she lived right around the corner and was extremely accessible. In the intervening years, she has moved to Georgia and we have had some difficulty getting issues addressed. For example, we had no heat. Right before Christmas. It was freezing in our apartment and we were both about to leave town. She was of little to no help and Roommate wound up breaking into the basement apartment to inspect the unknown type of heating device that we have and diagnosis the problem. And when Roommate insisted that Landlord Nutcase foot the bill of putting us in a hotel with heat, Landlord Nutcase yelled at her and told her this was our problem. Huh? So, there has been strife between Roommate and Landlord Nutcase for some time now.
This past February, we woke up on a Monday morning to discover that while the living room and dining room had heat, the bedrooms were without heat. We were both off to celebrate President’s Day, and by celebrate I mean spend my Presidents on shoes at the outlet mall. I placed a phone call to LN in Georgia and she responded that she would get someone to come over and drain our heating units. Roommate and I were both perplexed by this diagnosis of the problem because for almost three years, there has never been a mention of “draining the heating units.” A plumber shows up, (to fix the heat, obviously) and tells us that the draining does not seem to be working. Another phone call to LN and she promises to contact Slade, her all around repairman. Now, Slade is quite the character. He is much more interested in chatting with us about our weekend plans than actually repairing anything in our apartment. LN says Slade is far away and will be there in a few hours so is it okay if we just give up our entire day off and sit around and wait for him? I realize if we were homeowners, this would be our responsibility. But we rent and we shouldn’t have to sit around our freezing cold apartment waiting for someone who most likely won’t be able to remedy the problem anyways.
Roommate decided that there was no sense in both of us sticking around in the cold and set me free to the outlet mall. When I arrive at said outlet mall, I receive a phone call from Roommate who was told by LN that Slade would be later than expected. Thereby dashing Roommate’s hopes of accomplishing anything productive on her day off. Roommate made LN aware of her frustration, which was only made worse by LN saying, “Well is Jersey available? I would rather talk to Jersey about this.” Jersey was not available, Roommate responded, Jersey is out living her life and not wasting her day waiting on a repairman.
So, there is tension between Roommate and LN. That is putting it mildly. Shortly after the heat disaster, LN emailed Roommate to notify her that she not received her rent as of the due date. To make a long story short, Roommate no longer had the money in her account, LN tried to blame Roommate’s bank, a representative of Roommate’s bank called LN out on her nuttiness, LN told said representative that Roommate was “bitter” and refused to include her on the call, LN then emailed both of us, called Roommate “mentally unstable” to which I responded, “that is entirely inappropriate” and we were then informed that we could leave our lease whenever we wanted and would be best suited somewhere else.
But I love my apartment, I whine. And I don’t want to move. And I had a whole plan worked out whereby I would continue to live with Roommate in this apartment for another year and thereby bank my Big Firm salary. Said plan did not anticipate moving with Roommate two weeks after starting my job and then most likely moving again in a year or so if/when Roommate gets engaged. So, I am torn. Do I move again with Roommate, whose boyfriend is over often in order to save money on rent and avoid having to purchase an entire apartment of furniture? Or do I move out on my own now (or within the next five months), eat Ramen noodles for a few months until I change jobs and am actually able to afford this living on my own?
I just don’t know. I so love my apartment. Oh, and staying in the apartment and having someone else move in with me is not really a viable option. As I am too old to live with someone that I meet through a Craig’s List ad and I think staying in the apartment with someone new would mean the end of my friendship with Roommate. Who is great and lovely and ending our friendship is not an option.
Compliment
One of my fellow Law Clerks just paid me the hugest compliment. And I shall gloat about it here.
She came in seeking advice for the proper stationary to use for her post-interview thank-you note. She opened with, “I have a silly question, but I had to ask you because you are the most stylish person that I know.”
Moi? Stylish? Aww…you are too kind. Granted, she is a bit of a hippie and does not travel in a couture wearing circle, but still. I am the most stylish person that she knows.
Do you think it is bad that hearing from others that I am “such a good law clerk” or a brilliant legal mind does not produce the same satisfactory reaction as being called stylish?
OKAY fine, no one has ever called me a brilliant legal mind. But if someone were, I wonder if I would be as excited as being told I have style.
Bootylicious...Or Not
“So, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Is it because your butt is too big?”
NO I AM NOT KIDDING. Someone actually said this to me on Friday night Well, to clarify, he either said this or “Is it because your butt is not very big?” I was pretty sure it was the first but after further discussion with KS today, we’ve decided it might have been the latter. Mainly because I have no butt. I am 5’9”, 125 pounds, and have an ass that is flatter than a pancake. My booty is non-existent. My body is without curves. I don’t want to belabor the point but really, I have no butt.
So, obviously this comment surprises, no STUNS me. I was a little shaky in my heels at this point (thank YOU pitchers of Bud Light and the ease with which you go down) but I do know that immediately following his comment, I just looked back at him. I met his stare and we both twisted slightly and took a good look at my butt. This part is fuzzy but I am pretty sure he was gone when I turned my head back around.
I really don't know what to else say about this exchange.
Empathy
One thing not everyone knows about me is that I have an empathy problem. A really bad empathy problem. You know that phrase “My heart goes out to [fill in the blank]”? My heart, on a daily basis, goes out to people and I just feel badly about things that I cannot control or change. Maybe it relates to the
ICGC. Regardless of the reason, things that have no relation to my life but just upset me by their sheer existence really get to me. Like an elderly man wandering through the grocery store, slightly confused. Such a sight would bring tears to my eyes, but I’ve learned to try and cast a positive spin on it. Maybe his wife is at home and he decided to do the shopping for the week and the confusion is not a sign of dementia but merely a sign of infrequent visits to Harris Teeter. Of course, the empathetic part of me responds, “Maybe he isn’t half of an adorable elderly couple, maybe he never found love….and you shouldn’t pity him because frankly, you could end up like him.”
Okay, that is the part that I try to keep in check. The overly dramatic part. This empathy came out in full force yesterday morning at a routine scheduling conference. [Aside, scheduling conferences consist of a law clerk and a scheduling person (basically someone from the Clerk’s Office who works in the case scheduling department). Attorneys come in, we set trial dates, occasionally a fight breaks out, but normally my only beef with scheduling conferences is that they start at 8:15 in the morning.]
We were wrapping up our last case when an elderly couple opened the doors to the courtroom rather hesitantly. I hadn’t noticed but a female attorney had walked past us and checked in with the deputy. I turned towards her as she said loudly, “They are elderly and pro se and should be here soon.”
The couple, small and frail, clung to each other as they approached counsel’s table. I smiled warmly at them, while shooting a rather evil look at the attorney. The man sat down in front of me and his wife took a seat behind him in the first row. She sat right on the edge and just looked at me with a tremendous amount of expectation in her eyes. We selected a trial date and I indicated that the man needed to sign the order. He started to sign on the correct line, but then looked at me as if that was wrong. I assured him that he was right, and then he looked at me, with shaking hands, and said, “I am having trouble holding the pen.” He smiled slightly and then completed signing. I gave him a copy of the order and the couple, still looking confused and uncertain, walked out of the courtroom as the attorney spoke rapidly to them.
The scheduling person went to pry the file out of my hands but I opened it up to review what exactly had brought these people into court. The complaint, filed by the County, alleges that they have violated an ordinance against using their yard for storage. Apparently, they have exceeded the high brow county’s limitation on junk and are being sued to remove it. I wanted to run after them and tell them I could get some friends together and we could come over and take loads to the dump. While that would have satisfied the empathy side of me, it most likely would have resulted in the firing of all of me. So, I held back.
I went back to my office and couldn’t stop thinking about this couple. And how helpless they must feel. Matlock (my next door neighbor at work - so dubbed because of his penchant for bow ties - I feel a seersucker suit is the next logical step) stopped by and I told him about the couple from scheduling. And how it really upset me.
His response did not help.
"Wow, that stinks. I mean, how are they supposed to move the junk if they are so small and frail? And their kids probably live far away so they can't come help. So, basically they are all alone in this. Yeah, that stinks."
I immediately got choked up because the "neglected by their ungrateful kids" storyline had not even crossed my mind.
Matlock quickly made his exit while I tried to regain my composure.
I recognize that I could suffer a worse fate than being incredibly tuned into the emotions of other people. I would not want to go through life aloof and indifferent to those around me. But along with the blessing of feeling the pain of others comes a feeling of helplessness. In some situations, I can make someone laugh or provide comforting words or pick up the bar tab after countless pictures of beer. I have a few Friends in Need [FINs] who have needed exactly that. I can’t fix your broken heart but I can be there while you take the steps to fix it yourself.
But there are so many others who I feel powerless to help but yet feel duty bound to try something. And I feel there has to be something more that I can do besides helping them fill out a scheduling order. And as much as I am excited to start my next job, I worry that the feeling of helplessness will only grow. Because now I do occasionally help people. I’ve called people to inform them that an adoption has been finalized, that they no longer have their evil ex-husband’s last name, that they can file separate tax returns because they are now divorced…in what seems like small ways, I have helped people. Not on the grand scale I envisioned in high school when I swore I was going to join the Peace Corps, but in a very palpable way that helps me get through my days.
My fear is that as much I as love lawyering, I love helping people more. I won’t lie and say I am not excited about the perks that will come with my next job - mainly the salary and the number of new shoes it will provide. But I worry about selling out. I worry that after a few years at Big Firm, I will have lost touch with the empathy side of me. The side of me that has always naively proclaimed I want to make a difference. A BIG difference. I worry that the long hours and large bonuses will over time silence that side of me. I guess that it is promising that I am aware that this could happen and the awareness may operate to prevent it from happening.
This post has gotten away from me, it seems. I started it to retell a story from my day and to share how sometimes even simple things deeply affect me. But I’ve now raised questions for myself that can’t be answered today.
Looking out for me
Cool Mom’s office is right outside the criminal file counter. She has a front row seat to all the good courthouse drama. And, in her apparent boredom, she is now surveying those who line up in front of her office in the hopes of finding me dates.
The email I just got from her:
I know that I'm not supposed to get into the matchmaking game, but there is a guy at the criminal counter who needs his record so that he can get a tattooing license. Apparently, he taught himself how to do piercings and now wants to learn how to do tattoos…
Tell me that he isn't a catch...I shoot back my reply that yes, he is indeed a catch and can she keep him occupied while I spruce myself up a bit.
She then replies:
You missed your chance. He just left. And, there wasn't even an outstanding bench warrant against him, so he was definitely a catch.
Shout out
The majority of last week was spent slaving over this rather complicated motion the Judge was set to hear on Friday. I had procrastinated a bit in the hopes that the attorneys would settle the case but a few days before the hearing, it was made painfully clear to me that the case was not settling, so I spent countless hours wading through over 50 pages of briefs (love Big Firms. Big Firms that come to state trial court and drown us in paper. Love them. Oh, wait. About to be employed by one such Big Firm.) and reading non-controlling authority because of course, there was NO controlling authority. We could go the way of Texas, or Georgia, or even Massachusetts. Somehow the Commonwealth's high court had not spoken to these issues which left me burning the midnight oil. Finally, Thursday morning, I finish my memo. All fifteen pages of wisdom. Complete with a chart at the end with my recommendations. Keep that count, kick that count, all there for Judge to see. I really struggled with the issues but felt utterly and completely satisfied as I clicked "send" and the Monster Memo went off to see Judge.
A few minutes later, I am back in Chambers, with my hand reaching into the community pretzel jar, when I heard Judge call for me. I pop my head in and he looks over his computer at me with complete annoyance.
"I got the memo."
"Oh, good. There is so much to that case, that's why the memo turned out s - "
And I am interrupted. By this:
"Well, I don't see what is so complicated about it, seems to me [insert startling simple statement of completely settled law]."
"Wellllll," I stammer, "I thought there was more to it than just that...." and my voice trails off. What am I really thinking is "I have just spent six plus days on these issues, I live these issues, I breathe these issues and if [startling simple statement of completely settled law] was true, I WOULD KNOW IT."
I manage to keep that last part to myself and tell him to call me with questions. I skulk back to my office, wondering if I really had blown past something so simple. I turn my attention to other tasks and soon, the call I am dreading comes.
"Why don't you come on back so we can discuss this?"
I prepare myself mentally, repeat the phrase "I am not an idiot" about 85 times during the short walk, and take a seat in front of Judge.
"Well, what the heck is X's argument here? I mean, it seems as if they have nowhere to go."
While hard to explain fully here, he basically reverses his earlier statement about how the case is a complete no-brainer and then regurgitates my own *brilliance* back to me. He says "I agree with you completely, I think this has to happen just like you said."
Stunned, I just nod.
He then gets up and says "Man, that took me 45 minutes to work through. What a pain! I need some lunch."
Still stunned, because seriously 45 minutes? A fraction, my friend, of the time I spent but hey, I guess that is why I work for him. To paraphraes Snoop Dogg, all I can do is lay it out so Judge can play it out.
The biggest compliment came on Friday during the hearing. The attorney began his argument by saying, "Your Honor, we know there were a lot of issues here, and we hope you have had a chance to review everything, we realize there was a lot of paper involved and -"
My judge interrupted him:
"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to my law clerk. She really carried the heavy weight on this one."
The attorney turned to me, face bright red with embarrassment, and said, "I hope you accept our apology."
He actually waited for me to nod and stammer "It's fine" before continuing with his argument.
So, the moral of the story is that Judge does appreciate my hard work. I know this deep down, but he doesn't say it or show it very often. Last week he showed it with a shout out to me in front of a courtroom full of attorneys. The work is expected and I am happy to oblige. My past bosses have been real hand-holders and always showered me with positive enforcement. One of the things I like about Judge is that he has forced me to be more of an independent thinker, to figure things out on my own, and not run to him with a million questions.
Expect more nostalgia to come in the next few months as I wrap up this job.
Oh, the joys
Of having a crappy week and having to put up with
this guy.
Me: “Can you go through this trial transcript and flag every time the word opinion is used? There is a word index in the back, so it shouldn’t take too long.”
Cabana Boy: “Sure! Great! Sounds like awesomeness!”
I walk by Cabana Boy a while later and notice that he is barely ¼ of the way through Day One. Of Three.
Me: “How’s it going?” I ask this while staring pointedly at his computer where there appears to be five gmail chat conversations taking place.
Cabana Boy: “Oh, pretty slow.” With an apparent sigh.
Me: “Well, are you using the word index that I mentioned? You know, the thing in the back, where they list out every word found in the transcript and give you page cites for it?”
Cabana Boy: “Oh, yeah, didn’t know about that! But no worries! I see now! And I will get moving!! This is awesomeness!”
Another hour or so passes. Cabana Boy returns the transcript to me. With not nearly as many flags as I had anticipated. I eye the transcript rather suspiciously because it does not have nearly as many flags as I expected.
Me: “So, there is a flag every time that the word opinion is used in the transcript?”
Cabana boy: “Well, no. I only flagged the times I thought were important!”
Silence. As “using his judgment” was not at all part of my instructions, I just stared back at him.
Me: “So, this is not every time?”
Cabana Boy: “No! But it is all the important times! That’s all you need!”
Me: “Um…okay.”
Cabana Boy: “So, should I come in at 9 or 10 on Thursday?!?!”
Me: “I honestly don’t care when you come in on Thursday.”
Cabana Boy: “Great! 9 it is! See you then!”
Okay, rant concluded. And for the record, I have complained to Judge about his incompetence. And so has my supervisor, Cool Mom. But Judge, fearing the wrath of his daughter if he fires her good friend, refuses to do anything about it.
Awesome.
