In which I get a whole compliment

My mother called me this morning while I was at work. It always freaks me out when my parents call me during the weekday. I usually assume someone is either in the hospital or dead, so I get really nervous when I see the phone number. I missed the call and it went to voicemail, so I called right back. My mom answered.

"Did you call me?" I asked

"Yes, I did," she replied. "I left a voicemail."

"Well, what did you say?"

"Just listen to the voicemail."

And we hung up.

Uh, ok. Weird. So I waited for the voicemail to pop up on my phone. And waited. And waited and waited and waited. Just when I was about to call her back and make her tell me what she said, the voicemail showed up on my iPhone (greatest invention EVER, with fire coming in a distant second).

My mom greets me and then identifies herself by saying: "this is your mother." Yeah, thanks Mom. Because I had no idea it was you, seeing as how I haven't heard that voice at least once a week for the last, well, let's just say over thirty years. I'll bet the entire internet two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that my mom just replied "yeah, WAAAYYY over." She's a charmer, that one.

Really, both my parents a pretty quirky. For instance, they always split things at meals. Like the world might end if one of them ate an ENTIRE piece of fruit or drank a whole soda at lunch.

"Honey, do you want to split this Dr. Pepper?" my dad will ask.

"Sure. Do you want to split an apple with me or an orange?" my mother will answer. Then later, before dinner she'll ask my dad: "Honey, do you want half of this beer?"

"Yeah, I'll take half that, sure," he'll respond.

Then, after dinner, they'll fight about who will clean up. And I don't mean they throw down and argue, accusing the other of never doing things around the house, I mean, they fight because they each WANT to clean up.

"No, Bob. You sit down and read your paper."

"No, I'm happy to clean up."

"I can do it. It's fine."

"Joyce, sit down and relax. I'll clean up."

"No no, honey. Don't you want to watch your news shows?"

It's seriously twisted.

But getting back to my mom's message. I guess she had just read my last blog entry, because she said,

"This is your mother. And I think you're incredible, too."

Thanks, Mama. I love you, too.

In which I pull yet another crackbrained move...incredibly

Cognitive therapy is all about changing the way you think and is especially helpful if you have a lot of negative thoughts. You know, like when you make a mistake and all you focus on is how stupid you were and what a boneheaded move it was and now, well, your life is over and you should just die. If you have a flair for the dramatic. Like me.

But please. Let me illustrate for you the result of two years of cognitive therapy.

So, we all knew it was going to happen: I did something wrong in my new job and I got yelled at. I deserved it really, because what I did was pretty stupid, and I knew it was the wrong thing when I did it. Hey, cognitive therapy helps change your thinking, it doesn't keep you from making idiotic snap decisions.

I'd love to tell you what I did, because it's pretty laughable, but work blah blah blahbitty blah you know I can't. So we have to leave it at I did something dumb and knew it was a mistake WHILE I WAS DOING IT. Anyway, I went to my boss to confess it, because I cannot stand knowing that I did something wrong and just waiting for the ax to fall.

"I think I just made a mistake," I said.

"What did you do? What happened?" he asked.

I told him. It was clear he wasn't happy, and he expressed it in his classic lack-of-a-finished-sentence style. I stood there, feeling like the bottom was dropping out.

"No. You can't do that. You can't just do that kind of...this is a very sensitive...you can't do that. Don't ever do...don't ever do that again. You can't...how can you? Why would...look, I know that...initiative. And you're incredible. But you can't do that kind of thing. Don't ever do that...don't do that again. You can't...can you undo it? Can you stop...?"

"Yes. I think I can. I'll try. I'm sorry. I won't do it again." I replied. I ran back to my desk to fix the situation as best I could. Then, as usual, I did an instant replay of what my boss had said to me, and the one thing I focussed on?

Incredible. He said I am incredible.

And I focussed on the positive.

I'm positively incredible! Hee hee!

New York-y

Only in New York will you see a Mini Cooper limo. A PINK Mini Cooper limo.

And we've all lost socks in the dryer, but who has ever seen a flyer for one?

Only in NYC.

(Ok, it is ultimately an ad for a new store, but pretty clever, no?)

********

Lately I've had my air conditioner (a window unit that was a housewarming gift from my friend S) on all the time and the windows closed to shut out the heat and humidity. It sort of makes me feel isolated, because I can't hear the city. No voices or music or laughter. But the weather has cooled down considerably, at least for now, and it is feeling very fall-like. So I turned off the AC and the fans and opened all the windows last night. And I remembered what I've been missing: the drunken yelling, the honking, the sirens.

Ah, New York.

In which (insert something witty about decorating here)

BEFORE:

Ugh. That was pretty sad. And uncomfortable. But, we do what we have to until we can do better, right?

DURING:

Definitely better, especially the bed. But it's not done yet. This photo is my inspiration:

And it also happens to be the view outside my window.

I was thinking maybe a couple of these on the walls. Would zebra print throw pillows be too much? What should I do about lamps?

Any other ideas on how to bring the outside in?

...and STAY out!

I've mentioned that I have a new position at my job. The first week was pretty dramatic - lots of rushing around, staying really late and running (literally running) to court to file stuff. You understand, as I have explained before, I won't really talk about work, as I would prefer to keep my job at this time. So you'll have to be content to know that I deal with things, stuff, items, papers, pleadings, and any other synonyms I can come up with.

Ok, so, I had to go pick up this order that was supposed to be signed when I got there, only it wasn't. I had to walk it to the courtroom and ask the judge to sign it. I freaked out a bit and called the attorney for whom I was working. I had to talk quietly, as I was in the echoing marble hallways of the courthouse.

"I have to take it to the judge," I hissed. "What do I do if he asks me questions?"

"Ok, here's the deal," she began, and proceeded to detail the case to me in case I got questioned about it.

I went over it in my mind, and by the time I got done, I was pounding a lectern like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Meanwhile, in real life, I dropped off the order with the clerk and was told to come back to pick it up. "The judge has a jury trial," she said, "so come back in about thirty minutes and we'll have it ready for you."

Hmpf. No grandstanding for me. No applause. Just waiting on a bench for a signature. Waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. And waiting. For hours, literally, for the lawyers to stop talking so I could get in there and get my signed order.

Finally, I went into the courtroom to wait, thinking that maybe my presence would speed things along. So I sat inside and waited. And waited and waited and waited oh my god with the waiting. The bailiff presented the judge, who looked like he was about 178 years old, with my order and he shrugged it off. He announced he didn't have time to read it as he had plans to go out of town. Out of town! Without signing my order? Nuh-uh.

The bailiff brought the order over to me. "He can't sign it tonight. Sorry. Come back Monday."

"Monday? I can't wait till Monday," I replied. "We requested this be expedited. It really needs to be signed today."

"Sorry."

"Listen, I understand the Judge has to go now, but, please, if there is any way he can sign this tonight, I'd really appreciate it. You see, our client-"

"Sorry. The Judge is leaving. You'll have to come back Monday."

"Please. Please. Can you please just ask him if he can just take a few minutes to look it over?" I begged.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He wouldn't budge.

"But we need to get this signed right away. Our client is trying to -"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The judge is a busy man, he doesn't have time to read your order. I told you to come back Monday. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the courtroom. Now."

It's not like I got escorted out by my elbows, but there it is. I got thrown out of court.

I'd like to say I left there with a signed order, but I didn't. That stuff only happens on television. We didn't have to wait until Monday, though. I went the next day with some backup (0ne of my bosses) and we got the order signed by another judge. It took a couple of hours and there was some hoop-jumping, but we ultimately got what we needed.

And I got to flirt with the Ex Parte clerk. But that's another story for another day.

In which I write a post that would be great if you could fry it up and dip it in ranch dressing before stuffing it down your gullet

I had a plan to come home this evening and start writing the story of when I got thrown out of court, but note the time, please.  I just got home from work about an hour ago.  

I'm really liking my new position in the litigation department.  I feel like it is a little more intellectually stimulating than what I was doing before, so I'm enjoying it so far.  Of course, I haven't gotten yelled at yet, so we'll see. 

In the meantime, it's a lot of work and it's really cutting in to my sitting around time, so tonight's post will have to be in note form:

• I had a greek salad for dinner at work tonight.  My breath smells like onions.
• I traded out my regular deodorant for the aluminum-free kind, but I think I forgot to put it on today.  I kept smelling food all morning, and then around noon I realized that it was my armpits.  They smell like onions.

I have to go to bed now and dream of, you guessed it: onions.

In which I recount a story that is totally not funny AT ALL

So I have several stories to tell, but I'm not sure in which order.  I suppose chronological is best, so maybe Fancypants: Kat Killer should be first.  

I mentioned that I was house/cat/fish sitting a couple of weeks ago.  While the fish were plotting world domination, the cats, Lucky and Grey Kitty, mostly hid from me.  Lucky would show up and let me give her her thyroid medicine and pet her for a bit while I watched cable (cable!), but then would usually disappear for the rest of the evening.  Grey Kitty was generally nowhere to be found.  

Wednesday evening before I went home, I stopped in to talk to the head of the litigation department to let him know I was interested in a position that was rumored to be opening up.  We talked for a bit and I headed for the fancy apartment with all the free wine.  I found Lucky and gave her her medicine, after which she went away from me and hid.  I thought this was weird, because usually she hung around after the medicine for a little attention.  But whatever, I mean, cats are weird.  I'm a dog person myself.  They're all waggy and they follow you around and loooooooove you.  Cats eye you suspiciously and then get in your face and make you sneeze and then purr in that sweet kitty-cat way and then shun you.  So I don't really know how to read them.

Anyhoo, I went to bed early, as I had to run an errand to court as early as possible in the morning to file a thing.  Naturally, I woke up late, and therefore HYSTERICAL, as I was supposed to be AT COURT FILING A THING, for heaven's sake!  I freaked out, ran to the bathroom and got in the shower.  When I was done, I noticed that there was something on the bath mat.  One of the kitties had obviously peed on the mat, and there was blood in the urine.  Neither of them was anywhere around.  I got ready and ran out of the apartment and down to court (to file the thing).  When I got to the office, I called my boss for whom I was house/cat/terrorist fish sitting, and left a message on her voice mail asking for the vet's name and number.  Since I wasn't able to reach her, I started looking for an emergency vet.  In the meantime, a coworker came to me desperate for help with a time-sensitive project, so I had to enlist the help of the office receptionist to find a vet for the kitty.  

Now, never mind that I didn't know exactly which kitty was the bath mat pee culprit.  For all I knew, it could've been that big blue fish with the yellow tail trying to mess with my head. I did suspect it was Lucky, because she had been acting so strangely the night before.  We found a vet that was very close to the apartment, but they told me they couldn't treat Lucks without proof of ownership or permission from the owner.  

"What am I supposed to do if I can't get a hold of her?" I asked.

"I don't know ma'am.  I'm sorry.  We just can't do it.  It's the law," she replied.  

It's not the law.  Of course it's not the law.  I suppose it is their right to have their own rules, but it makes me question whether they really have the animals' best interests at heart.  I mean, what am I going to do, abduct someone's cat and take it to the vet for a rabies shot WITHOUT THEIR PERMISSION?  It just doesn't seem right.  Snobbish upper east side animal hospital.  Anyway, the desperate coworker I was helping called her vet (she was sympathetic, as she is a cat person), explained the situation and got me an appointment.  No proof of ownership needed, and they would bill my boss.  Nice.

I worked through lunch, drank a lot of coffee and finally got to three o'clock, when I left to get the cat for the appointment.  When I got home, she was laying on the living room rug wheezing and she had thrown up all over the entry way, poor thing.  No doubt Lucky was the sick one; I found an old towel, scooped her up and ran outside to get a taxi.  Luckily we got a really sweet cab driver who got us there without jostling us too much, though Lucky cried and wheezed all the way.  

When I got to the vet, the receptionist knew who I was and took us back to the exam room immediately.  The vet could tell right away that Lucks was pretty sick, so she took her away for a chest x-ray and some blood work.  I waited in the exam room, then in the waiting room.  When they finally called me back, the news wasn't good.  Lucky had a collapsed lung, fluid build up around her heart and lungs and blah blah blah de blah de bad stuff is wrong with her systems are failing recommend euthanasia.  

Euthanasia.  

Shit.  I have to put my boss's cat to sleep, I thought.

It all made sense, of course, the cat was in pain, that was obvious to me without a visit to the vet, but to put her down?  The whole idea was horrible to me.  

I called my boss and got voice mail.  "The vet said that Lucky's in pretty bad shape and she -"  my voice caught, "she thinks that," my voice cracked, "she's recommending," my voice broke, "euthanasia."  Then I finished brightly, "so, give me a call back!"  

She called me back pretty quickly: "Let me talk to the vet," she said.  I handed over the phone to the vet and continued to pet the wheezing Lucky, who was now on my lap.  The vet brought the phone back to me and my boss said, "I'm really sorry about all this.  Please give Lucky kisses and tell her goodbye for us."  

Then I started crying.  I did as I was told and then the vet gave Lucky a shot to tranquilize her as I kept petting her.  

I won't recount her death (the cat's, not the vet's), but suffice it to say that she went before she was ever euthanized.  I continued petting Lucky until after she was dead, and I cried like she was mine.  

Then I went back to work covered in cat hair.  Dead cat hair. 

Did I mention I'm allergic to cats?

On the upside, I think my boss felt so bad that she accepted my suggestion for a name for Grey Kitty.  She has now been deemed "Lucy".  And she has apparently become much more friendly than she ever was when Lucky was around. 

Hm.  Suspicious.

Maybe Lucy was the one plotting, not the fish.