Change of Heart

Well, I got the new job offer, and I turned it down. After much analyzing and number crunching and thought, it just wasn't worth making the change. I'm not sure if the accrual of one vacation day per year after the first year, or the manager's statement of "She's my whore," a while back about one of her loyal, work-my-ass-off-for-you-for-10-years-and-make-you-look-good subordinates, was the deal breaker. Whatever. I guess I'll just slave away at my present place of employment for a while longer.

And, Christmas! The love, the joy, the family dysfunction! I can't wait.

I wonder if we'll play "Pin the Blood on the Lamb" this year at Boyfriend's sister's house. I sure do hope so. It was so much fun last year.

Or maybe we can have another "Merry Fuckin' Christmas" at my mom's like we did a couple of years ago. That would be fun too.

Wine please.

No--more wine than that.

Just give me the bottle.

I Have To Work Now

I am a legal secretary. I help very busy and very rich attorneys make a lot more money than they would without me. That's what I do. And I'm very good at it. That's what makes me valuable in the workplace.

Three weeks ago, on a Monday morning for the love of God, the HR director called me into her office. My first thought was "I'm going to be fired for spending so much time on the internet." Um, that was not the reason.

As it turned out, through a bunch of secret Firm machinations, they had eliminated a secretarial position in my department and I was the proud recipient of my first partner in this particular firm. I had just been handed a lot more responsibility and a lot more visibility. I smiled at the HR manager, accepted my new duties with finess, and swore all the way back to my desk.

Today, I got a new job offer. It is the first job offer I have had outside of a law firm in 15 years. It's an administrative position for the small, yet wealthy and very snobbish, city government of my hometown.

E.g. I am a VERY big fish in a VERY little pond and I am rich and you can kiss my ass--no kiss it harder--and, (smiling with capped teeth) if you don't, I will have you FIRED from your little job that you and your little family depend on to live and then I will laugh.

I have long been of the opinion that these folks REALLY need to get out more. Seriously--get the fuck out of town and go to another place on the planet. Any other place as long as it is not here.

In the interview, when asked why I moved from San Francisco, I noted that my maternal grandfather had retired from this city, and that's why my family lived here. Thankyouverymuch.

And I'm taking this job. It's a cut in pay and the job is going to be a lot more work and I'm going to have to deal with those big fish but . . .

There are several reasons I'm accepting this job. The first is, if I'm going to have to work my ass off, I may as well be compensated. With my new job, my employer contributes 13% of my salary to my retirment program annually. My rich lawyers average a 2% annual contribution, and they have a hell of a lot more money than the small pond.

Another reason I'm accepting this job is that my B.A. may mean something, at some point; possibly in the near future. Maybe someone will actually appreciate the fact that I spent four years of hell in school, and 10 years of poverty paying it off. I'd really like an employer to at least acknowledge that fact. With money.

Also, the lawyers are remodeling five floors of our huge building. And it's crap. I don't know who the fuck picked the shit out, but if they were going for early war, late ugly; they succeeded. And it's loud now. And I don't like it loud. And there's no privacy whatsoever. And, not only can everyone see your every move, they can also hear every word you say. My floor is the next to be remodeled and I'm really not thrilled with moving all my shit and all of my attorneys' shit down to another floor. Frankly, I'm not thrilled with any of it. I'm just sayin'.

The down side is I'll have to learn tons of NEW law, work with new people hanging right over my shoulder, and get paid even LESS for this privilege.

Old job, new job. WTF ever. Right now it all sucks. But, in the long run, I know I'm making the right decision.

All I have to do is tell the 99-year-old. And I'm not looking forward to it. But five grand in the will just ain't enough. What do you think my chances are of talking him into a mill?

I'd totally stay for that.

Quiet

I like it quiet. I don't like background noise. I really don't like any noise. If I'm listening to music, I'm listening to music. But, most of the time, I like it quiet.

Unless I have the last song I heard on infinity reply in my head. Like Adam Sandler's Hanukkah song. I really like that song. I sing along to it and laugh at it like it's the first time I've heard it--every time.

But tonight, it was on replay in my head while I was making dinner and I had to put on another song. To kill the Hanukkah song in my brain. (It wouldn't go away quietly. I truly had to KILL it.)

So, I chose Beth Hart. Mostly because it was in the CD player, but also because it is one of the best CDs I have ever heard. (Hence, it's physical location.)

It's Beth Hart, Screamin' for my Supper, 1999. KILLER CD.

Won't sleep till I've had enough
Won't sip my wine from no paper cup
Won't sleep till I've had enough

Delicious Surprise, 1998

* * *

All I want is a brand new truck
With one-eyed jacks and beginner's luck
The doctor's script for the perfect drug
Get it all while I can

But I got no money and I got no man
I drive around in a beat up van
Ride on coffee and percodan
Get it all while I can

Is That Too Much To Ask, 1998

I am a musical moron. I have no idea what the fuck is going on in music. It often makes me feel inferior. Again. Like I don't have enough things to feel inferior about. But. Whatever.

I've been to more concerts than most people I know so when I feel like a complete retard, I play the "Did you ever see the WHO?" card, or the "How many times have you seen the Dead?" card, or, "Can you tell how old I am by all these shitty musical cards I'm playing?" card, or the "Have you seen U2?" card. (BTW--Best fucking concert I've ever seen. I think it was March, it was definitely 2001 in San Jose, California, the last "event" DD and I ever went to together, and I nearly peed my pants. And that's not because my allergies were acting up. WOW and O.M.G. I went into that concert liking U2, and I walked out a fan, and it was the first time that had ever happened to me. And, like I've said, I've been to more concerts than you. And, I don't fuck anyone (except myself) and I would have fucked any one of those U2 dudes given a chance, and I only knew one of their names. GREAT SHOW!!!!)

I don't listen to music often. Maybe it's because my stereo sucks. Maybe it's just because I just like it fucking quiet.

But, if I'm going to listen to a CD, it's definitely Beth's Hart's 1999 masterpiece, or Annie Lennox's Medusa or Tracy Walker's Naked. (Look that one up.) Or, a classical music radio station.

I'm missing something. Lots of things, I'm sure.

But my mind usually keeps me too busy to realize it.

99 Years

I work for a 99-year-old man. His name is Mr. S.

He's sharp enough to come into the office every day.

I adore him.

This is a telephone conversation I recently overheard:

Mr S: I had a tooth filled there yesterday and the doctor recommended that I have two molars pulled. As you know, I'm 99 years old and I can't be around too many more years. They aren't giving me any problem and seem perfectly fine to me, so I think I'll just wait until I have some sort of symptom before I do anything.

Well played, Mr. S., well played, indeed.

Trip To The OC, Part II

I threw some things into my backpack, including the Beck's that were in the fridge, and we got on the SuperShuttle.

It was still dark; I think it was an early fall trip. It was freakin' 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning people!! And I was drunk. And I think it's pretty safe to say that DD was drunk too.

If you've never taken a SuperShuttle to the airport, they stop and pick people up until the van is full and then, and only then, do they proceed to the airport. DD and I were picked up second. There was one man already in the van when we got in.

It was a continuation of the night before, with an hour or so nap, and DD and I were raring to go. We were just chatting away in the SuperShuttle. Laughing, talking, reeking. Whatever. DD loved to talk. Not only was she chatting me up, but she was also chatting up the driver and the other passenger.

It wasn't long before the passenger says to us, "Could you guys keep it down?!"

Well, of course we could.

NOT! We are drunk. And it is 5:00 a.m. And we have had barely any sleep. It is really still Friday Happy Hour to us. Hello!!!

But, we tried. We really did give it a valiant effort SuperShuttle passenger! So instead of BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. We lowered it to ssssp, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp. Ha haa haaa, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp. Like SuperShuttle guy passenger could no longer hear us. Because we were whispering. Nor smell us! It was awesome. But, he didn't say anything else to us. Maybe he was waking up. Or, maybe our smell was waking him up. Or, maybe he just didn't give a flying fuck anymore. Because we were unstoppable.

We get to the airport. Dawn has broken. We are waiting to board our flight. DD and I, chatty as ever, board the plane. A hottie is in front of me as we are walking down the aisle and I may have made a comment about his nice tooshie. I really can't rember EXACTLY what I said. But, what I do remember is that he told us to "Please Be Quiet Because I Have A Hangover."

Oh, Puh-leese. GMAFB. I told him that my hangover had not even BEGUN to set in, so it sucks to be you, hot tooshie guy.

We finally get to our seats. So. Happy.

The Flight Attendant asks for our drink orders.

DD: I'll have a bloody mary, please.

FA: I'm sorry, but we won't be serving you today.

DD: When will you be serving me?

FA:

Me:

DD: (You need a picture here of her face, that I cannot even begin to put into words. But, she was pissed. Indeed.)

FA to passenger across the aisle: And what would you like to drink?

I had the good fortune to sit next to an Indian oncologist. He had the window seat, I was in the middle, and DD was on the aisle, fuming. But I didn't notice. I was too engrossed in my conversation with the oncologist. And drunk.

I had a great flight, not being served alcohol, chatting up the oncologist, talking about SCIENCE! Really, I know some science. The oncologist wants to marry me, I'm sure. He almost proposed, but then the crew announces that we are landing in John Wayne Airport, please take your seats and fasten your seat belts.

DD hasn't said much during the flight. When she was denied her bloody mary, she put on her dark sunglasses and shut the fuck up.

Just as the plane hits the ground, DD looks at me and says, "Give me one of those Beck's." Of course, I give her one of those Beck's, and the bottle opener I always have with me (because I always drink good beer, and you can't twist that cap off). (This is pre 9/11 people!)

As we're walking off the plane, the FA who denied DD her bloody mary is saying, "Buh Bye," and DD toasts her with her opened Beck's and says, "Cheers."

I am so happy to be off that plane. I cannot even tell you. I hate flying. Not because it scares me, but because I cannot afford first class. And flying just sucks all around.

We walk into the terminal and there is a coffee shop directly in front of us. We go to get some coffee. Like it's going to help anything. But, of course it does. Coffee helps everything.

We have our coffee and we are standing at the table because there are no seats in this "coffee shop." DD is facing the terminal, and I am facing her with my back to the terminal.

DD: Uh oh. Federales.

Me: What?

DD: Federales.

Me: Huh?

Federale: Can I see some ID?

Me: (pulling out my driver's licence)

Federale: Are you driving?

Me: Bwaaa haa haa. We never drive. We live in San Francisco.

DD: Well, we are behind the Orange Curtain now.

Federale:

Federale: We had a complaint that you were distrupting a flight.

Me:

DD:

Federale: You smell like a brewery.

DD: Well, if your going to start arresting people for smelling bad, maybe you should start outside.

Federale (turning red):

O.M.G. This guy was so pissed that he couln't arrest us it was scary, or hilarious, or, I just don't know. When I think back on it, why the fuck couldn't he arrest us? I'm sure he could have, but, obviously, he felt that he could not or did not have the authority.

Again, this was pre-9/11. I am sure if this scene was repeated today, DD and I would have been hauled off to the pokey, tout de suite.

But, as luck would have it we were young, a little worn, and not driving! The Federale told us to get on our way. As we left, we laughed heartily at ourselves, and at him. And his big brown cowboy hat.

Trip To OC, Part I

In or about 1996, after dating these loser attorneys who went to law school together, DD and I became single. We pretty much spent all of our spare time together. It was awesome. Much more awesome than hanging around the two drips we had recently been relieved of.

Betty told me that I should meet her in LA, when she and her husband would be visiting his father and step-mother. When I brought this up with DD, we agreed that we both should go for the weekend. DD and Betty were very excited to be meeting each other, since I had spoken so highly of both of them to the other. So, DD and I made arrangements to meet Betty and her husband in LA, and we would all stay at the husband's parents' house.

We scheduled our flight to leave SFO sometime around 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning. That way, we would all get into John Wayne airport at the same time and we would be able to travel from there together.

It being the Friday night before a vacation weekend, DD and I had to meet for happy hour. The hours after work were very happy for us; especially on Friday. We got to indulge in two of our favorite things--alcohol and each other.

We began the evening at one of our favorite haunts, the Old Ship Saloon. DD's boyfriend (and future husband) was the bartender there (that's how they met. I was there to witness it.) and he made us many yummy, yummy drinks. (Best bartender I ever had, and I know my bartenders.) We chatted up all our friends and had a grand ol' time.

Armed with drunken wisdom, we decided we should go see Mark Sodini, our second favorite bartender, at Sodini's, in North Beach. So, we began the short trek up Broadway.

That's where we met SpiderMan.

When we first saw him, he was across Broadway with a Suit and we didn't yet know he was, indeed, SpiderMan. Drunken DD apparently had something so important to say to the Suit and Spidey, that she crossed the street to talk to them, dragging me along with her. As we were crossing Broadway, the Suit kind of, um, ran away. Fast. Very fast. When we came upon the recently deserted squat bald man wearing a leather jacket, we casually noticed that he had a SPIDERWEB TATTOOED ON HIS FACE AND HIS HEAD!, with the center of the web being the tip of his nose.

O.M.G.

We were drunk enough for this not to strike us as odd. We were, after all, seasoned San Franciscans. This was not the first freaky tattoo we had seen. It was the FREAKIEST tattoo we had ever seen. As DD was talking, (interrogating?) SpiderMan, his eyes were darting around looking for someone to save him, it seemed. But, no luck. That part of Broadway was desolate. Then, DD noticed the burns on Spidey's neck and she said, "Ahhhhh, cigarette burns I see." This made Spidey very uncomfortable and he ran away too.

Yes, we scared a man who had a spider web tattooed on his face and head and had cigarette burns on his neck. It was definitely going to be a good weekend.

Undeterred, we ventured on to North Beach where we moved on to doing shots, and completed the hat trick of Sodini's, Gino's and Carlo's, and New Pisa. We were drinking and swearing like sailors, I'm sure, even though I don't remember it all that clearly.

What I do remember is my incredibly loud, obnoxious buzzer going off at 5:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and I hadn't packed a thing. And, I was still very, very drunk.