fearlesstemp: (mr. smith and saunders)
Signs your hometown roots might go a little too deep: you find yourself chatting up an interesting guy, thinking, "hmm...he seems nice, and he's a Democrat...maybe..." only to realize later, after doing the mental gymnastics required to figure out why you and he are at the same victory celebration, that yes, he is your cousin. Distantly, but still. When in doubt, just say no to cousin lovin'. Words to live by, I think.

We were not celebrating the national results, of course, but the local ones, which put our candidate for City Court Judge on the bench. I shook hands with a bunch of politicians I'd known only by seeing their name in the papers before, and had lots of awkward mingling moments where I stood within spitting distance of people I recognized vaguely but could not place, because I have a horrible memory for faces and after all this time temping in my relatively small area there's a scary amount of people out there I should recognize but really can't.

Speaking of my flakiness: I dragged my ass twenty miles out past my house to meet with R. for our tutoring session, only to realize upon pulling up the library that it was closed. Closed! Super fab tutor that I am, I totally just assumed that the library closed every night at 7PM, as it had last Wednesday (the night of our first meeting), but I was completely wrong. It closes at 5PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which is aggressively annoying because those were the two nights I'd scheduled our regular tutoring sessions to be on.

I tried frantically to call R. and catch him before he got in the car, but no luck. I ended up sitting alone in the dark in my car on the side of the road, positive I was going to be sideswiped by one of the many trucks whizzing by at 50 mph (but should not have been worried – my electric blue station wagon, hidden as it might have been in the shadows on the side of the road, still was a smidge more visible and avoidable than the sprightly deer these drivers are trained to avoid).

Note: Watch my car get nailed next time.

R. was gracious and understanding and willing to reschedule for tonight, and after chatting a bit, we both got in our Ford vehicles and took off in opposite directions, he to the country, me to the city, where I sat in an office and annoyed random people in my hometown via phone in an attempt to get them to the polls.

I was just getting to the O section at a little after eight, less than an hour before the polls closed, when my father poked his head in and told me to come upstairs with him to make calls from the office he was using. I gathered up my list with its careful notes and my half-full bottle of Diet Pepsi, ready to continue the fight from a different vantage point, but when my father led the way into the hallway, he turned right instead of left.

"But the stairs are there," I said, pointing vaguely but still following him.

"Do you think it'd be less obvious if we took the stairs?" he asked.

"Less obvious?" I said, and watched him hit the down arrow on the elevator panel. "Wait, isn't the office –"

And just as he said, "We're bailing," I realized that was what he was doing, and stood there open-mouthed in shock.

Became more open-mouthed with shock when my father announced we were going to his Upstate Independent Filmmakers Meeting (one of my father's many random activities). We arrived just in time for the last film, which was a ten-minute commercial spot for the – and yes, this actually exists, and I would direct you to the website, but it appears to have suffered a catastrophic website failure. I can't tell you how hard it was not to laugh at the stock footage from the 1970s of people paddling across a lake, set to synthesizer music so cheesy I thought it wasn't used for anything but parodies anymore. I felt evil and awful and wrong, but then after the lights came up the guy who made it confessed that he hated the music too.

There followed a lengthy, excruciatingly boring discussion of cameras which I won't go into here because I will not spread my suffering. This is the same reason I won't say more about that thing that's about to happen at 1PM.
fearlesstemp: (cary kate net)
I can't believe it's been eight days and I haven't tortured you all with tales from my father's Mensa Art Show. To put it simply: It was an experience. I spent an hour and forty-five minutes of my life I'll never get back sitting with an old man who told me we were like the Russian Empire, being brought down by wine, women, and song. Then he told me about how terrible lawyers are, and how you can get sued for a hangnail. He caught himself a second later and said, "Not your father, of course. Or your grandfather."

"Right," I said, and then my Hardass Tough Girl melted away in the face of feeling like I was being rude to an old man. "But some of the commercials for lawyers are terrible."

"Awful!" he said, and then went on about a bunch of other things I can't really remember because I spent the whole time thinking about how much my father owed me, and that this would most definitely cancel out any guilt I feel over moving home and living with them rent-free the last couple of years.

During the art show I wandered around eating lots of cheese and crackers and having awkward, occasionally overly-personal conversations with people I'd just met. One woman soothed me into a false sense of security by starting a typical conversation about our shared alma mater, and then somehow segued into stories about her childhood in a Catholic orphanage and how her father tried to kill her mother three times but it wasn't really his fault.

"He was insane," she said. "There was something wrong with his brain. He couldn't help it."

I probably said something in response but I can't think of it now, because it just doesn't seem like there's anything a person could say to that. But I must have said something, because I wouldn't have been so rude to just run back into the kitchen for more Werther's Originals without saying anything. Though maybe I did just that.

Most of the other people were charmingly eccentric, a bit like my father. He was in his element. I felt weird because people kept asking me which artwork was mine and all I could do was point at my father's family portrait of me, my brother, and my mother at dinner and say, "That's me on the right. It's my father's painting, I'm just here for moral support."

The most important thing I learned was never to choose shoes for a six-hour outing based on the idea that you'll "probably" get to sit down a lot. I got compliments on my new black heels, but my feet were killing me by the end.

That was the Saturday of last weekend. The Saturday of this weekend was spent baby-sitting Emma, who is now seven years old, which just does not seem possible. She's still high-energy and precocious, but it looks better on a seven-year-old than it did on a three-year-old, probably because I can better communicate my empty threats to her.

"Well, if you're going to do throw ice at the dog, then I guess we're just going to have to eat at the kitchen table!" What a threat. I let her eat in the living room when I babysit because I'm Just That Strict. She threw ice at the dog a couple times more and we still ended up sitting at the coffee table in the living room, eating chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese, watching a Scooby Doo episode with a vampire.

At one point I kind of jumped at something that happened on screen (this is why I can't go to horror movies; Scooby Doo episodes startle me), and Emma looked at me across the table very seriously and said, "It's okay, it's not a *real* vampire."

"Like you?" I asked. She had tried on her Halloween costume while I was boiling the water for the macaroni, and emerged from the bathroom in a black cape and plastic fangs. She had warned me from the bathroom a few times that it was going to be a little scary, but that it would be okay. I yelped and clutched the wooden spoon I was using for the macaroni to my chest, and she took the teeth out of her mouth and had me pick her up so that I could see it was just Emma.

"Like me," she said.

I gave her a bath and brushed her hair while she read from a book to me, and then we did math flashcards before I put her to bed. She still asked me to lie down next to her and sing Old MacDonald. Every time I go there I think she won't ask, but every time she still does. I'll probably cry the first time she doesn't.

She's a sweet kid. When I got to her house, she was playing out back with Andrew, the boy next door who my aunt doesn't really like. She thinks he's mean. They were pulling an oversized wagon full of toys around the yard and after I said I was going to go inside to see her mother, Emma pulled out this plastic laptop toy and said she was going to type my name to see what it means.

I was halfway across the lawn when I heard Andrew say, "Her name means fat and ugly!"

I kept walking like I hadn't heard, and then just as I was going to go into the house, I heard Emma yell, "Jessie, your name means beautiful!"

"Thanks, Em!" I yelled back, and then I went inside.
fearlesstemp: (working girl)
Watch this space: At some point this week, I may change my LJ name. I've been meaning to change it forever, but have been hampered by (a) laziness and (b) lack of creativity re: a new name. Still plagued by both, of course. But something about half of my LJ name being the same as the name as poor little Molly, off chasing baby bunnies in the great beyond, is finally getting to me, and so I Need A Change.

We'll see if I actually get my act together and do this, of course.

Last night I forgot to set my alarm, and so I woke up twenty minutes late this morning and had to skip showering. I feel gross, disgusting, and only half-awake because of this, which has made today particularly fun since everyone in the known world has decided to call this office. Often in a bad mood, with a crappy connection, and extremely long, complicated names.

While working these jobs, I often have these theories and epiphanies that are of no interest to anyone, and so, of course, I am going to share them in this space.

Temp Epiphany/Theory of the Day: It seems counterintuitive, but people who say, "How are you?" or "Who am I talking to?" when you answer the phone are far more likely to be demanding and difficult to handle than those who simply say, "[Random Attorney], please." It doesn't matter how pleasant their tone is when they ask, or if they seem interested in the answer. Just initiating conversation is the red flag.

Perhaps this is only a regional thing. I welcome input from any and all people who have worked the front lines of an office before.

I spent most of last night holed up in another lawyer's office downtown in my hometown, desperately calling people and trying to get them to go to the polls for the primary. My father's been involved in the local Democratic party forever, but last night was the first time I'd gone out to help, and it did feel good to be doing something. Also, I got a nifty Kerry/Edwards lawn sign! Go me!

Being in a non-swing state is at the same time comforting and frustrating. I mean, on the one hand, it's frustrating not to be able to do stuff locally to guarantee Kerry the election. On the other hand, if I lived somewhere like Ohio or Florida I'd probably have a hard time being civil to people voting for Bush. Here, where Kerry is winning easily, when faced with a Bush supporter I can usually step back after a couple of minutes of friendly debate and say, "Well, everyone's entitled to an opinion." In Ohio or Florida it would probably be more like, "Well, everyone's entitled to an opinion, but yours is WRONG and TERRIBLE and, and, and, WRONG!"

And I don't really want to talk to my Nana like that.

Today my father stopped by and picked up my old cell phone because they are doing construction near his building and accidentally cut the phone line. He left several messages on my new cell phone that said stuff like:

Message One: I'm calling from the HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS because I have NO PHONE SERVICE AT THE OFFICE and I NEED A CELL PHONE and so I'm going to have to BORROW YOUR OLD ONE! Call me at home, honeybunch. I'll be there in a minute. Bye.

Message Two: I'm at the house trying to find your old phone and it's NOT HERE! Do you have TWO cell phones with you? TWO PHONES?

Okay, so it doesn't translate over the internet, but I swear, they were hi-larious. I was doubled over at my desk. Because I find humor in my father's ill fortune.

I did have both phones, of course, but for a good reason. I used my new cell phone to call people last night, and burned a lot of minutes, and so I wanted to use what few minutes are left on my old cell phone plan today. Occasionally there is logic in my world.

Hey, it's 5PM, which means it's time to motor and I have no time to edit, but spent so long on this thing that I'm posting it.
fearlesstemp: (superjoe)
So I randomly joined Greenpeace. Or am I a patron? Whatever you call a person who donates $15 a month, that's what I am! Completely accidental and likely short-term, as I'm both easily convinced and unwilling to give up money that could be better spent on trashy magazines. I mean, it's not that I don't like the environment -- honest, I do! I recycle! -- it's just that I'm not so zealously committed. The Greenpeace girl who got me to sign up yesterday was telling me stories while I was filling in my little form, saying things like, "We have tremendously committed members! We have people jumping in front of harpoons being shot at whales! People chaining themselves to trees! People risking their lives for the environment!" And while I'm sure I was supposed to be moved and impressed at their gusto, all I could think was, "Wow, that's...a little much."

But still I signed up! Because she was so earnest and eager and I'm not sure how many people from my little struggling home city would be signing up. Though come to think of it, she might have gotten a few, since the city is currently experiencing a sort of yippie revival, complete with lots of antique stores and specialty shops, all of which was on display yesterday at the (possibly first) River Arts Festival. It was very fun, had live music, overpriced jewelry, and kettle corn, the three requirements of any kind of street festival around here (and possibly anywhere). And, also, the socially motivated people with clipboards. They are always a staple.

But anyway, I signed up! And feel like a fraud. Oh well.

Post-Greenpeace, I was walking along with my bud Anna when I saw this guy trying on this huge, gaudy sombrero. I thought to myself, "Now that's something my Dad would do," and then, sure enough, Anna said, "Hey, I know you!"

Yes, it was my Dad! In a gaudy sombrero, which he requested that I buy for him for Father's Day. I was just about to hand the money over to the dealer when my mother rushed over and started slapping my hand away, all, "You can't! You CANNOT buy this for him! He will WEAR IT! He will wear it OUT! Also, it probably has bugs!"

My mom is convinced everything secondhand has bugs.

I nodded and promised not to and then promptly skulked around the festival with Anna for a bit, losing my parents, so that I could go back and buy it for him without my mother the watchdog interfering. I had a long verbal debate over the purchase (consisting, basically, of me repeating the phrase, "My mom will KILL me" over and over), and then finally made it. I bought the sombrero and walked all around downtown with it hanging down my back because it was (as all hats are) too small for my big head. Fun fact: sombreros worn on a person's back with the string across the throat? Not so fun! First of all, it kind of feels like you're being strangled, and second of all, people talk to you about the sombrero. One lady asked me how much I paid for it and, when I told her, clearly communicated through the pause before "...that's not so bad" that I was ROBBED. Which I already knew. Aren't you supposed to barter with these vendors? I can't! I'm a child of suburbia, of the shopping mall, of the bar code prices! I got five bucks knocked off by the vendor without me asking for it, and that's as far as I could go.

Anyway, finally made it back to the car without being strangled by sombrero or mocked too harshly by fellow citizens (but vaguely terrified all the while that bugs from the sombrero were burrowing into my sweatshirt), only to arrive home later that evening and discover a sombrero sitting on the dining room table. A different sombrero. An additional sombrero.

My mother saw me looking at it and said, "You got one too, didn't you? I told you not to! I told your father not to buy this one because you were going to get the first one! NO ONE LISTENS TO ME!"

Now there are two huge, gaudy sombreros in this Irish-American household. We took pictures of each of us wearing them in the backyard tonight. Am positive neighbors again think we are insane. They are, of course, not wrong.

In other news: I'm sure you are all aware that the New York Mets swept Detroit this weekend, right? GO METS!!! WOOOO!!!! These moments are few and far between and must be SAVORED!
fearlesstemp: (fred and ginger pick self up)
I haven't done laundry in an age, which makes the morning interesting. Today I was running around the house in a towel post-shower on a desperate underwear hunt (pair found at the bottom of the clean laundry basket next to the dryer, thank goodness) when I realized the answering machine was blinking. Played the message while looking for socks (wanted to wear sandals, since it is so nice out, but yesterday received an e-mail at work saying that bare legs aren't okay until after Memorial Day – am confused as to what that says about bare feet. If one is wearing pants, can one wear sandals without stockings? It seems such a pain to wear stockings with pants and, also, I just hate the look of stockings with sandals. Wonder if I can get past this), and found two messages from aunts C. and B. about grandfather. Aide very sick with stomach virus, desperately need someone to go over and give him breakfast, blah blah blah.

Parental units unavailable, Mom already left for work and Dad preparing for colonoscopy. He initiated the following conversation as I was getting ready to go over to grandfather's house to meet my aunt, after calling work to let them know I would be late.

"If I don't see you again," he said to me from the top of the stairs, "I just want you to know, you have been a perfect daughter."

"Thanks, Dad, that's sweet," I said. "But you're going to be fine!"

"And also, remind your mother that I want you to hand out ten dollars to everyone who comes to my wake and funeral."

"Will do," I said, and ran out the door.

Raced over to grandfather's house, where I was meeting Aunt B., who had, when I returned her call, revealed that she'd burst into tears in the middle of the office in front of people right before I called and thusly had to get out of there, but wanted company.

"I just got my period," she explained when she arrived at my grandfather's house.

"That'll do it," I said.

We walked into the house to find my grandfather already up and around, motoring from the bathroom to the kitchen, his two favorite haunts.

"Hello!" he said. "What a nice surprise."

"You're up," my aunt said. "How long have you been awake?"

"Hmm, let's see," he said, leaning on his walker, pretending to ponder. "I fed the chickens at 6:30, and then – come on, how the hell do I know when I got up?"

"Right," I said. "That's the right answer."

My aunt helped him get dressed ("I'm in my ballet outfit," he said of his undershirt and sweatpants.) and I made him his delicious breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate, which my aunt and I then watched him slowly make his way through over the next half hour. Topics of discussion during this period: Flowers outside, article in paper featuring acquaintance of grandfather, my job. It may not seem like much but since my grandfather's mental slate tends to clear out every ten minutes or so, each topic got covered two or three times in our time there.

Aunt and grandfather continued in their remarkable faith in my future. "You're such a great role model," my aunt said, suggesting I look into teaching possibilities at a local private school.

"Yes, definitely," I said, waving my hand in a majestic way. "I could show them how to become a directionless twenty-something living with her parents."

"Don't put yourself down," my aunt said, and I instantly felt bad.

"I was kidding," I said, "I'm fine."

And I am. It's a nice spring day, my grandfather was in good spirits and eating well; when I got to work today, an hour late, I found out the stuff I'd done for the event on Tuesday worked out great. Things feel possible, even if I am wearing unsightly white socks and clunky black shoes instead of cute sandals.
fearlesstemp: (bucky)
Tomorrow my father has this art show thing where one of his paintings is being shown, and I know he's going to want to go (not so much because of his work being shown, but more because of the free wine and cheese afterward -- he's all about the free stuff), and he'll need someone to go with him (to drive him home post-wine-and-cheese), and since my brother has to go back to school tomorrow and my mother needs to help him do that, I can feel the tug of familial obligation already. The art show thing is a forty-five minute drive away, minimum, and I know it's going to be exceedingly boring (and I loathe being bored, and bore easily, a fatal combination, especially when art is involved because art, like music, is one of those things I enjoy for the most part on the most basic, shallow level of "oh, so pretty/fun/cool" -- not too much deep thought or contemplation). Basically, I just don't want to go. But will have to, I fear. Because The Guilt will get me if I don't.

Can you tell I'm PMSing? Because I am. I keep having aggravation flare ups. I wish I had an indicator on my forehead so that people would know when I was in Irrational Irritation mode and know to keep their distance. Instead, I have to rely on my own iffy interpretation of my own mental state, and announce, "I am suddenly in a bad mood!" whenever I feel an aggravation flare up to warn those around me.

How can I have nothing to say? I had stuff to say just a little while ago, but it is all gone now. I find myself staring into space wanting to talk about The Apprentice (which is tremendous fun, imho). I could go on at length but will instead summarize it in two points:

(1) I totally thought Carolyn was, like, 50, and not 35, her actual age. This is further proof that I completely lack any ability to read things like this -- I can never guess people's age, height, weight, or the size of any inanimate object. Also, distance; ask me to walk ten feet, and unless I spend the time putting my own feet toe to toe, I'll probably just wander until you give me a weird look that says I've gone way too far.

(2) Kwame and Troy are so adorable together it hurts, to the point that when one of them gets eliminated, there simply must be a montage. Can't you see it? Spotting each other working out, making fun of Omorossa over the phone, scampering through the streets of New York to complete a mission. Aw. They are so cute.

And that's all I've got.
fearlesstemp: (working girl)
Since my mother has started going to the gym after work (unlike her lazy, slothful daughter), I'm usually the first one home most nights when I don't have to go out after work. So when I drove up tonight and saw the garage door wide open, I was surprised and wondered who beat me home.

And then I saw there were no cars in the garage or the driveway.

Now, any sane person would assume that the last person to leave the house (my notoriously forgetful father) had simply forgotten to close the door on his way to work this morning. I am not any sane person. I am, instead, a neurotic girl who spent too many hours of her formative years watching shows like Rescue 911 and America's Most Wanted (these were seriously my favorite shows between the ages of, like, seven and eleven. Until I discovered Quantum Leap, to put it in other terms). Naturally, the only conclusion I could draw was that crazy murderers were hiding in my house, waiting to pounce on me.

And so I called my father on his private line at work.

Dad: (Annoyed, his general state at work) Yello!

Me: Dad? It's Jess. (I still signify it's me instead of Jimmy even though we stopped sounding alike oh, ten or twelve years ago.)

Dad: What, Jess.

Me: Did you shut the garage door when you left?

Dad: What?

Me: Did you shut the garage door when you left? Because it's open now and I don't know if I should go in, and I wouldn't worry except for the whole garage robbers incident and --

Cell Phone: BEEP. (Digital Display: Signal Faded, Call Lost)

Exactly how all horror movies start! The truth is, a quirk of my cell phone plan is how I get no reception at my house. It's very annoying.

Naturally I called back several times, only to get cut off every time, until I got SO FRUSTRATED that I decided to go into the house to use the land line. Yes! My cell phone related frustration was greater than my fear! It's good to know something trumps that, but still, once I got into the house and onto the phone, part of me was all, "Okay, so how was this a good plan?"

I called my father again.

Dad: Yes Jess.

Me: I'm in the house.

Dad: You're in the house?

Me: Yes, I'm in the house. Should I not have come in? I probably shouldn't have come in. Why did I come in?

Dad: Well, you're in there now.

Me: Right.

Dad: [Silence.]

Me: So, uh, what should I do?

So we did a walk through of the house, found no insane robbers, and then my father, who had to go to a meeting after work and wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, told me I should either call the police (!!) or go visit my aunt who lives five minutes away if I was nervous. These were good plans, and I totally would have taken one of them, except -- well, except I really had to pee. See, when I get nervous? I have to pee. It's an awful thing. And the thing was -- if you're going to use the bathroom in a creepy place, you've kind of committed to that creepy place. It seems strange to bust out of someplace like a bat out of hell and stop in the loo on the way.

Naturally, it is far more normal to hang up with your father, stand by the bathroom, and say, in the most booming of voices your shaky nerves can muster, "Okay! So if there are any burglars in here or anything, I'm going to go --well, I'm going to go into this room here, and, well, I will stay there at LEAST a few minutes, and if you want to get out, you can go! And get away! I won't look! I won't have seen you! And, you know, I have a phone -- no, TWO phones in here -- so don't think of trying something. Okay? Okay. And my father is going to be home VERY SOON! Okay."

And then I went into the bathroom, took care of business, and promptly realized that I didn't want to leave. Because what if there was a scary burglar out there? I had no weapons except my cordless phone and, well, a bottle of Proactive Toner! Which I tried out a couple of times and provided enough squirty action to operate as makeshift Mace.

I called for backup in the form of my bud Anna, over the phone who, after knowing me for so long, didn't miss a beat and when I called and said, "So I'm in the bathroom now, and I'm afraid there's someone out there, and logically I *know* there's not, but I'm worried, and I've got some Toner here in my hand but if you could just stay on the phone with me while I go out there, that would be great," she said, "No problem."

Needless to say, there were no scary burglars in the hall. Instead, there was just Molly, flopped over on her back with her paws in the air in Designated Cute Kitty Pose #13, designed to get some attention and/or milk.

I explained the whole situation to Anna on my way downstairs, including the one thing in the house that seemed odd -- the jar of peanut butter in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"Do you think there are burglars who just come in and misplace household items?" Anna considered.

"It would explain a lot," I said.

We both decided it was definitely just my Dad being forgetful, which makes sense since he's the guy who's gone through two teakettles just this year, I think, by forgetting to turn off the burner on his way out in the morning, so that I return home to them sitting blackened on the stove. We're just lucky there hasn't been a three-alarm blaze. He's always running late and in a rush in the mornings.

Anna had to go because she had to call her Dreamy German Boyfriend, and so I called the next person on my list of People I Like To Annoy When I'm Being Crazy: Annie. Annie gave me some great advice.

"I think you should turn on the TV," she said. "That would make me feel better. Because even though it would totally drown out the sound of any approaching bad guys were there any actual bad guys, putting you in greater danger, I'd rather have the distraction and not know until the last minute."

"Good thinking," I said, and went into the living room and put on my Firefly DVDs.

Annie had to go eat dinner, and just when I was going to hit the next peron on my People I Like To Annoy When I'm Being Crazy list, Joanna, the phone rang and it was Anna calling back to check on my status. We chatted for a bit and were just discussing the merits of popcorn when lo! My wayward father returned, all apologetic for the whole situation, saying it was just his forgetfulness again.

"We should develop a system," I said.

Anna suggested a list by the door and I was about to pass that along when my father said, "I already have a system for the water."

"The water?"

"The teakettle. To remember to shut it off. I use the peanut butter."

"The peanut butter?" I was already laughing at this point.

"Yeah, I put it in the middle of the floor, and then when I'm on my way out, I see it, and remember to check the stove."

And so the Mystery of the Wayward Peanut Butter was solved, there were no scary burglars, and we all lived happily ever after.
fearlesstemp: (Default)
I think my house has been put on a new telemarketing list or something. We've gotten a bunch of calls lately for "James MyLastNameEsk."

Which was very confusing at first, but my father liked it and started walking around saying, "'You mean like James MyLastName-esque? As in, My that's a James MyLastName-esque golf stroke?'" He thought it was pretty cool.

And then we realized that he must have been listed as James MyLastName, Esq. As in Esquire, like attorney, and they were reading it phonetically. And now they keep calling and multiple people have made the same mistake and I don't know what to do! It feels rude to correct them but at the same time karmically wrong not to since I kind of giggle inside each time it happens because I am an AWFUL, TERRIBLE person who laughs at other people's mistakes.


Ok, now let's move on to one of my many mistakes. You know, I figured working a law office would cure me of my Phone Ditziness, but no! It has not! Yesterday I had the following conversation:

[Phone rings]

Moi: Good morning, this is Jessica, can I help you?

Woman: Hi, this is Jessica RandomLastName!

Moi: Oh! Good thanks, and you?

JR: ....Fine.

Moi: Haha! I'm sorry! I don't know what I'm saying! Haha!

JR: Do you have special needs?

And I'm even worse at messages, as any of my friends and family will tell you. I get very nervous and rambly and usually it doesn't matter, it's just Quirky Jess Behavior but at work! AT work it's Annoying, Incompetent Temp Behavior! But I can't turn it off! I leave messages like this:

Recording: Thank you for calling Random County Clerk's Office, please leave a message at the tone. Beep.

Moi: Oh. Hi! Hi. This is Jessica from Attorney Mr. Boss's office. I'm calling regarding, um, [insert case], about some papers we filed? A [Legal Document]? I think I may have forgotten to send some additional documents to the [Legal Document], but I'm not sure. Haha! I'm a temp, I just started and I think I may have forgotten, but I'm not sure, so if you could give me a call back whenever you get a chance and let me know what papers I filed, that would be great. Ok. Sorry to bother you, thank you and good- wait. The number. I forgot to give you the number! Haha! Ok, it's 555-5555, Extension 555. And this is Jessica. Ok. Thanks again! Bye!

What is up with that? I must have an alternate personality that's done a lot of drugs, because my brain is for-sure fried.


The other night I was talking to the brother on the phone and he was telling me about how he's set up his AIM so I can download songs from him, etc etc, and I should check it out. Which is cool, except for the fact that Jimmy and I don't like the same music, really. But there has been this one song I've been dying to get -- Come Sail Away by Styx (you may have read my rambling devotion to the song before) -- and so I asked him what kind of music he had.

Jimmy: Uh, Metallica and stuff.

Me: Oh, that's cool

Jimmy: Oh, and some Styx stuff.

Me: Styx?! Seriously?!

Jimmy: ...uh, yeah.

Me: Oh my God! What song?

Jimmy: Um...Come Sail Away?


Jimmy: Are you ok?

Me: I've only been dying to get that song FOREVER!

Jimmy: Really? It's kind of a crappy song.

Me: Shut up! I love it! Can I have it? Please? Please?

Jimmy: Chill, ok, you can have it.

And I do have it!! I listened to it like ten times last night. But how cosmically weird is it that the one song I want most in the world, he HAS? Freaky deaky, man.


And that is all for now. Off to file.


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February 2009

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