So today's crazy adventure took me to the Cleveland Clinic.
Yes, the Cleveland Clinic.
We have a client who is having surgery, maybe, this week, and needed previous chest x-rays on a CD to give to his new physician.
Forget I suggested having the new physician request them directly - "it's faster and more efficient that way", I tried to explain.
To deaf ears.
So with Mr. Big's approval, I requested the CD "ASAP" and when they faxed me a bill this morning, I printed the check, he signed it and said - go pick it up, please.
Ahhhh, a field trip.
I called to make certain it was ready and, oddly, the woman whose name appears on my faxed bill is "out today." Hmmm. . . so I spoke with another woman whose name I cannot recall, so we'll call her Ms. Secret.
Ms. Secret tells me the CD is ready.
Then she started to whisper.
"Go to the main desk, there will be a door to the right. Go through that door, down to the basement, the bottom level, and you'll see a big red doorbell button. Push the button and I will bring you the CD."
Seems simple enough.
And let me just say - thank goodness she felt it necessary to explain to me that the bottom level of the Cleveland Clinic is the basement.
What else might it be called?
The dungeon?
Anyway, I head out. From Beachwood to Cleveland Clinic. Oh, I had to stop at the bank. . and naturally, if you've read my past two blogs, realize that I need . . . . gas. Of course.
Now fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your outlook on life. . . we have a son who has a genetic heart lung condition and is being treated at the Cleveland Clinic. So (fortunately, or unfortunately), I am very familiar with the parking garage, the tunnel, and the Clinic in general. Several buildings. It's massive. It can sustain itself and I still think it would be the ideal place to work.
But I'll save that for another blog.
It's around Noon, so I have to park on the top level. Seven levels of hundreds of cars. . . gads. I park, head into the elevator, down to the tunnel, then up the escalator into the marvelous Cleveland Clinic.
I walk up to the main desk and looked to the right.
There's no door there.
I look to my left. . . down at my note. It says "right - past desk. . . door - basement (smiley face - not sure why that's there). . . . red doorbell. Push."
I looked to the right again.
Nada.
So a Cleveland Clinic "red coat" comes to assist me. These are the people who wear - guess? Yup, red coats and they assist you to your location. They are amazing. Apparently, they know ever nook and cranny of the Cleveland Clinic.
So I told the gentleman why I'm there and what I need.
He tilts his head.
Then shakes it.
"There's no door" he said, as he points.
I shrugged. "That's what she told me?"
"Who" he said.
So I tell him what Ms. Secret told me.
"You're a lawyer?"
"No. I'm his assistant. I'm just picking this up."
He realizes I really want to be in a different building.
I blinked. He walked me partially down a hallway and pointed.
"You see that building over there?"
I looked.
"Uh, yeah."
"You want to be there. You can take a bus."
I blinked. "A bus? But can't I just walk over there?"
He smiled and said "In those shoes? Walk? If you want. But watch out for traffic."
I looked down, confused.
Oh, heels.
Not a problem.
I am woman and all, hear me roar.
So I head out and across the street. Don't know what street it is. . in all the years we've been taking our son to the Clinic, we've never left the "main" hospital.
And thank goodness it wasn't raining.
No coat. . . no umbrella. Beautiful pink sweater and heels. . . but no coat.
Note to self - find your coat, dumb*&^...summer is over.
And I tried to walk like I wasn't really cold.
It wasn't that far - certainly not worthy of a bus ride. But I guess if someone is unable to walk that far. . . maybe. I'd say it was a "normal" block. Not even two blocks.
Anyway, I got to the main desk and looked.
There's a door to the right - but it clearly says "Emergency Exit."
Uh, no.
I look to the left. . . . same.
So I ask the lady at the desk. Told her the same thing I told the red coat in the other building.
She said, "Do you work here?"
Now I ask you: If I worked there, wouldn't I have a badge on with my picture on it like everyone else?
Yes, of course I would.
So I said, "No, I worked for an attorney. I need to pick a CD up with x-rays on it."
"Ohhhhhhhh" she said.
"Take the elevator to the basement. Bottom level."
What is it with the "basement, bottom level" deal? There is only one basement in the Cleveland Clinic. It says "B" on the elevator button!
Deep breath.
I said "but she told me.. . . "
The lady behind the desk scrunched up her nose and said "And I'm telling you to take the elevator."
Another deep breath.
I take the elevator to the basement. . . bottom level.
Walk into the "Heath Data Department" or maybe it's called "Health Information Department" and wait for the lady on the phone to finish her call.
I explain what I need. The lady who sent me the form is out today and I understand that but Ms. Secret is expecting me and. . .
"Oh, you want the second floor."
I blinked. "No, she told me. . . "
"And I'm telling you - you want the second floor."
Another deep breath.
Turn and walk out.
Hear me roar? Yeah, those are my feet now. . . .
I take the elevator up to the second floor - not sure what level that would be in their little world.
I walk up to the desk and naturally, there's a line.
Of people.
Waiting to get actual tests performed.
OMG. I do not want to be on THIS floor.
Ugh.
I wait my turn, trying to be patient. . . trying NOT to tap my foot, which I've discovered I do when I'm impatient.
Yeah, I'm that girl.
My turn.
I walk up and explain, again, to another lady behind another desk what I'm looking for. What I need.
I'm, what's the word? Exasperated at this point.
She smiled.
"Pick up that phone and she'll tell you where to go."
"Pardon me?", I said.
"Phone. There." (then she pointed - like I can't see it!)
"Pick it up. She'll tell you where to go."
Deep breath in. . . . .
A woman answers the phone. I try telling her what I want and became aware of the fact that everyone in the sitting area of the radiology department is staring at me.
What? They've never seen a six foot tall woman in heels wearing a pink sweater before?
Or was I almost yelling?
Yeah, that's probably it.
I mean, honestly, how often do you see a woman in a pink sweater?
But I digress.
Ms. Secret comes on the phone.
She says (and I'm not joking) in a whispered tone "I told you to go to the door."
So I whispered back "The woman at the desk wouldn't tell me where the door is."
She whispered "Go back down and walk behind the desk. Go through that door."
I said, whispering again "she won't let me."
"Fine!" she said, no longer whispering and it startled me! "Go downstairs. I'll meet you."
So I head down the stairs - correction, I took the elevator. Feet. Are. Killing. Me.
I stood there a few minutes and this woman came up behind me.
She whispered and pointed "That's the door. Next time go through there."
I said "Thanks, but there won't be a next time."
Signed my life away, checked the CD to make certain it had the right name on it - realizing there was no way for me to check the CD at all, I was just looking at a label.
If I get it back to the office and it's the wrong patient. . . .
Deep breath. . .
Walked back across the courtyard. . . past all the empty benches that say "no smoking". . . . back into the main building. . . through the lobby and down the escalator, through the tunnel, to the elevator, up to my car, only to drive alllll the way back down so I could leave.
The bonus - there was no fee!
I got to park for free!
I'm not sure why. . . . although maybe the hot doctor in the brand new white Mercedes in front of me picked it up.
Nahh, I doubt it.
Just my lucky day.
Because, after all, I am woman. . . . .
Monday, October 4, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
You threw your keys at me. . .
For those who do not understand the hierarchy of a law firm. . . allow me to explain.
There are Senior Partners, Junior Partners, Senior / Junior Associates, Senior / Junior Paralegals, same for secretaries. But that's for larger firms.
I used to work for a large firm. I now have the distinct pleasure of working for a solo-practitioner. Just what it sounds like. One guy. We also have an associate, but since we have just one, he's an associate. Same with a law clerk. Law clerks come and go rather quickly, usually staying a year. Generally they are hired in their 2nd year then quit after they finish their third year to study for the bar. And since we are not in a position to hire another associate (a job all law clerks want) - they move on and we hire a new one.
So I'm the paralegal / secretary. I worked for years as a secretary (see my previous blog to explain that) - and now I'm a paralegal. And I have the degree to prove it. :) BUT, for this job, I'm more of a personal assistant. I run numerous personal errands for Mr. Big and don't mind. Generally, it gets me out of the office and on a nice sunny day, that's always a bonus. (A double bonus is if I get to take one of his cars!)
Trust me, our associate and I "rock, paper, scissors" if our clerk is out, it's pouring rain / horrible snow storm, and something has to be filed that day. I, generally, always lose. But he has to stay and answer phones, so it evens itself out, I guess. I try to convince myself of that as I'm running through the rain after I find a crappy parking space and deal with the line to file in downtown Cleveland. . . yeah, I got the short end of that stick.
So, having said that, and keeping in mind I love my job (because I do) - I've been asked to run personal errands, this includes picking up the kids. Two beautiful girls. A teenager and a pre-teen. Nice girls.
One day, months ago, we had something due in Geauga County Court. . . which is way out in a corn field. Okay, not literally, but just about. No law clerk the day it was due. . . so there was no doubt I was going to take it. So our associate - I need to think of a name for him for my blog - was working. Mr. Big was in meetings or something of the sort. I made all the copies, put all the exhibits in order. . . then waited for the Brief that had to be filed.
Mr. Big called. He was stuck in a meeting and asked me to pick up the girls. No problem I said. He lives out Geauga County way anyway. . . so the plan of attack was leave at 1:30 - drive out to nowhere - file the document, pick up the girls and take them to tennis. Got it under control. Shared that information with our seriously overworked associate.
1:30 came and went. No problem. I can technically still make it. . . oldest daughter gets out at 2:30. . . younger one at 3:00. Tennis at 4:00. Under control.
2:00 came and went. Okay, now we have a problem. I'll never make it now. Well, I could file after, but tennis will interfere with that.
What to do?
So I call Mr. Big. Seems there's a problem, I explain. And I explained. So he scrambled to find someone else. . . and took it off my plate. Big sigh of relief.
2:30 came and went then 3:00. I finally went into the associate's office and reminded him I needed to get moving. No pressure.
Sorry - total pressure.
It was done - I got it copied and assembled with the exhibits - got copies out in the mail. . . and off I went.
Now I should have mentioned above - this is for Appellate Court. So I not only needed a ridiculous amount of copies - but they close at 4:00, sometimes. The jury actually is still out on that. Some close at 4:30 with other courts - some close at 4:00. I wasn't taking any chances. I had to have it there. There is no - "jeez, sorry, I didn't get it there on time. . . "
Can you say - pack your crap and get out?
So I headed out - oh, I don't have enough gas? Seriously? I'll stop on the way back. . . because I'm not going to make it both ways and stopping now is not an option.
I got to the courthouse at 3:54. I am not kidding. I parked and grabbed the documents. The nice thing about Geauga County is generally, there is never a line to file and I never have to park in a parking garage - I just park on the street.
I looked up at the courthouse and can hear the clock in my head ticking. . . I took off running. Now, those of you who know me - know I am a tall woman. Maybe slightly imposing in size. And as I head up the steps to the courthouse - I took them two at a time. . . thank goodness I wore flats that day - and pants. No heels and a skirt or I never would have made it.
Steps two at a time. . package tucked under my arm - clock in my head ticking. . . ticking. I reached for the first door and pulled it open. There is a tiny entryway followed by another glass door - followed by a sheriff's desk and a metal detector. The sheriff's desk contains computer screens which show images from around the entire courthouse. And a deputy who is deadly serious about his job. As he should be.
Which means they (the two deputies) watched me jump out of my car. . grab a package. . and take off running toward the courthouse - taking the steps two at a time.
As I ran into the entrance way - I threw my keys at the deputy sitting at the desk - as he started to stand up - he reached for his tazer. At least I'm fairly certain it was a tazer and not his gun. In a split second, I made the decision to run through the metal detector . . . . then in that same split second, the clock ticking in my head stopped and I started thinking - please don't beep, please don't beep, please don't beep. . . . .
Because had I beeped. . . I would have been tazed and I would have been reduced to a drooling, twitching mass of paralegal on the floor trying to say - but this has to be filed today. . . please. . . ahhhhhh. . . .
I. Didn't. Beep.
He shouted at me but I kept running saying "I gotta file this" as I ran.
I ran up the steps - again two at a time - to the third floor.
The third floor.
Man, I am out of shape. I almost passed out at the top.
I stopped at the glass window and tried to catch my breath. I ended up having to put my hands on the tops of my knees and bend over. . . desperately trying to suck in air.
The clerk said - ohhhh, you just made it, as she stamped all of my papers.
I nodded.
I need to start working out again, or at least seriously lay off the junk food. Probably both.
Documents filed successfully. I sort of got my breath and headed back down the steps.
Huh-oh.
The deputy was standing at his desk - STANDING. Waiting for me.
He had my keys in his hands.
I said - I am so very sorry. I had. .
He said - you threw your keys at me.
I said - I know. I'm sorry. I. . .
He said - you threw your keys at me.
Clearly, he was irritated at me.
I apologized a few times. Explained I was late and I promise it won't happen again.
Who am I kidding? It'll happen again.
Next time, I won't throw my keys.
There are Senior Partners, Junior Partners, Senior / Junior Associates, Senior / Junior Paralegals, same for secretaries. But that's for larger firms.
I used to work for a large firm. I now have the distinct pleasure of working for a solo-practitioner. Just what it sounds like. One guy. We also have an associate, but since we have just one, he's an associate. Same with a law clerk. Law clerks come and go rather quickly, usually staying a year. Generally they are hired in their 2nd year then quit after they finish their third year to study for the bar. And since we are not in a position to hire another associate (a job all law clerks want) - they move on and we hire a new one.
So I'm the paralegal / secretary. I worked for years as a secretary (see my previous blog to explain that) - and now I'm a paralegal. And I have the degree to prove it. :) BUT, for this job, I'm more of a personal assistant. I run numerous personal errands for Mr. Big and don't mind. Generally, it gets me out of the office and on a nice sunny day, that's always a bonus. (A double bonus is if I get to take one of his cars!)
Trust me, our associate and I "rock, paper, scissors" if our clerk is out, it's pouring rain / horrible snow storm, and something has to be filed that day. I, generally, always lose. But he has to stay and answer phones, so it evens itself out, I guess. I try to convince myself of that as I'm running through the rain after I find a crappy parking space and deal with the line to file in downtown Cleveland. . . yeah, I got the short end of that stick.
So, having said that, and keeping in mind I love my job (because I do) - I've been asked to run personal errands, this includes picking up the kids. Two beautiful girls. A teenager and a pre-teen. Nice girls.
One day, months ago, we had something due in Geauga County Court. . . which is way out in a corn field. Okay, not literally, but just about. No law clerk the day it was due. . . so there was no doubt I was going to take it. So our associate - I need to think of a name for him for my blog - was working. Mr. Big was in meetings or something of the sort. I made all the copies, put all the exhibits in order. . . then waited for the Brief that had to be filed.
Mr. Big called. He was stuck in a meeting and asked me to pick up the girls. No problem I said. He lives out Geauga County way anyway. . . so the plan of attack was leave at 1:30 - drive out to nowhere - file the document, pick up the girls and take them to tennis. Got it under control. Shared that information with our seriously overworked associate.
1:30 came and went. No problem. I can technically still make it. . . oldest daughter gets out at 2:30. . . younger one at 3:00. Tennis at 4:00. Under control.
2:00 came and went. Okay, now we have a problem. I'll never make it now. Well, I could file after, but tennis will interfere with that.
What to do?
So I call Mr. Big. Seems there's a problem, I explain. And I explained. So he scrambled to find someone else. . . and took it off my plate. Big sigh of relief.
2:30 came and went then 3:00. I finally went into the associate's office and reminded him I needed to get moving. No pressure.
Sorry - total pressure.
It was done - I got it copied and assembled with the exhibits - got copies out in the mail. . . and off I went.
Now I should have mentioned above - this is for Appellate Court. So I not only needed a ridiculous amount of copies - but they close at 4:00, sometimes. The jury actually is still out on that. Some close at 4:30 with other courts - some close at 4:00. I wasn't taking any chances. I had to have it there. There is no - "jeez, sorry, I didn't get it there on time. . . "
Can you say - pack your crap and get out?
So I headed out - oh, I don't have enough gas? Seriously? I'll stop on the way back. . . because I'm not going to make it both ways and stopping now is not an option.
I got to the courthouse at 3:54. I am not kidding. I parked and grabbed the documents. The nice thing about Geauga County is generally, there is never a line to file and I never have to park in a parking garage - I just park on the street.
I looked up at the courthouse and can hear the clock in my head ticking. . . I took off running. Now, those of you who know me - know I am a tall woman. Maybe slightly imposing in size. And as I head up the steps to the courthouse - I took them two at a time. . . thank goodness I wore flats that day - and pants. No heels and a skirt or I never would have made it.
Steps two at a time. . package tucked under my arm - clock in my head ticking. . . ticking. I reached for the first door and pulled it open. There is a tiny entryway followed by another glass door - followed by a sheriff's desk and a metal detector. The sheriff's desk contains computer screens which show images from around the entire courthouse. And a deputy who is deadly serious about his job. As he should be.
Which means they (the two deputies) watched me jump out of my car. . grab a package. . and take off running toward the courthouse - taking the steps two at a time.
As I ran into the entrance way - I threw my keys at the deputy sitting at the desk - as he started to stand up - he reached for his tazer. At least I'm fairly certain it was a tazer and not his gun. In a split second, I made the decision to run through the metal detector . . . . then in that same split second, the clock ticking in my head stopped and I started thinking - please don't beep, please don't beep, please don't beep. . . . .
Because had I beeped. . . I would have been tazed and I would have been reduced to a drooling, twitching mass of paralegal on the floor trying to say - but this has to be filed today. . . please. . . ahhhhhh. . . .
I. Didn't. Beep.
He shouted at me but I kept running saying "I gotta file this" as I ran.
I ran up the steps - again two at a time - to the third floor.
The third floor.
Man, I am out of shape. I almost passed out at the top.
I stopped at the glass window and tried to catch my breath. I ended up having to put my hands on the tops of my knees and bend over. . . desperately trying to suck in air.
The clerk said - ohhhh, you just made it, as she stamped all of my papers.
I nodded.
I need to start working out again, or at least seriously lay off the junk food. Probably both.
Documents filed successfully. I sort of got my breath and headed back down the steps.
Huh-oh.
The deputy was standing at his desk - STANDING. Waiting for me.
He had my keys in his hands.
I said - I am so very sorry. I had. .
He said - you threw your keys at me.
I said - I know. I'm sorry. I. . .
He said - you threw your keys at me.
Clearly, he was irritated at me.
I apologized a few times. Explained I was late and I promise it won't happen again.
Who am I kidding? It'll happen again.
Next time, I won't throw my keys.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Getting Started
So, I got this bright idea, with a little nudging, that I would write a blog.
I mean, isn't everyone writing blogs now?
Allow me to introduce myself. Seems like a great beginning.
I am a paralegal. Not a journalist. Not a doctor. Not a sales person. Not a vet.
Although I love animals.
No lives are saved at the end of the day when I turn off my computer - except maybe my own.
I don't sell anything. I help people wade through the difficult legal system.
Specifically, I am a Plaintiff paralegal. Of course, it didn't start out that way.
I worked for years as a legal secretary in a defense medical malpractice firm in Ohio. Loved that job. We sat at beautiful desks made of mahogany; we took up two floors and the insurance company who insured the doctors / facilities / groups took up two floors. Everyone working together in peace and harmony. . . .
Wait. It's starting to sound like a Disney movie; no offense to Disney, of course.
We somewhat all got along. . . . then the department of insurance stepped in and took over. Seems the CEO / President of the insurance company "allegedly" embezzled upwards of $10 Million Dollars and we were all out of jobs.
In the blink of an eye - 13 years, gone.
Somewhere back in time, mixed in that 13 years, I decided I wanted to go to law school. I mean, I worked with new associates all the time and discovered - the "seasoned" secretaries were the ones training the associates. (Along with the partners, naturally.) Law school teaches how to research and apparently how to think. Not how to file pleadings. Not how to prepare documents. Obviously, if they could do it, so could I. Obviously.
But I didn't want to defend doctors. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
And I didn't want to represent people in car accidents - sorry, collisions.
Or do probate work. Or work for a corporation.
I wanted to be the Prosecutor. Not Assistant Prosecutor.
Prosecutor.
Of Cuyahoga County, Ohio.
Yeah, I know. No money. It's not about the money. It's about helping abused women. Or it was for me, anyway, in my mind.
So I went to school. Husband traveled 5 days a week. Two small boys. . . . and I worked full time.
I went on the weekends.
For. 8. Years.
8. Years.
Every other weekend.
Poised to graduate "shortly" - there was a glitch with a stupid computer class and I had to take "just this one last class" my counselor told me. . . . . I discovered I was pregnant with a wonderful "bonus" baby.
Just like that.
Going to school for 8 years - to get the B.A. I needed to go to law school. . . . in the blink of an eye. . . . halted. Not over. Just on pause. I'll go back. . . someday. I mean, law school isn't going anywhere.
While I was in school, the firm shut down and I traveled down the street to another firm (not nearly as large)with the attorney I worked with for 8 of those 13 years. I worked there another 5 years, but never really fit in.
I'm not an ass kisser. Sorry for the language. But I'm not. I'm the one who sits in meetings - in the board room - listening to the big head blather on and on about all the wonderful changes the firm is making "to help you do your job better" - and I'm the one who says "wait, whose stupid idea was that?"
Everyone turns to look at me. Waiting for me to open my mouth - asking the questions they are all afraid to ask. Because face it - generally, they are all stupid ideas. And, you can't fix stupid.
When I was not offered a paralegal position at firm two, due to my inability to kiss anyone's ass - and some garbage about this attitude problem. . . I moved to a well-known Plaintiff firm to represent Plaintiffs in malpractice cases.
I had to take everything I had done for 13 years, and do the total opposite.
Now, I wasn't filing Answers - I was drafting Complaints. Against the very people I used to help represent.
Watching statutes to make sure we didn't miss one. Getting medical records. Ugh. The medical records.
One of the larger facilities in town had a "Chinese wall" built so I couldn't work on any of "their" cases for over a year.
A "Chinese wall" is just what it sounds - figuratively. I was forbidden from doing work or listening about cases or giving my opinion on any case that had to do with this facility.
That facility didn't realize - by doing that, they were significantly cutting off my ability to make a living. I was entitled to bonuses based on the cases I worked on. No working on them - no bonuses.
This too, shall pass.
I didn't fit in there, either. Too "clicky". Too "junior high school". Not even high school - junior high.
I. Was. Fired.
It was personal.
Really didn't care.
Wait - I cared. But I pretended like I didn't.
I went back downtown briefly to work as a secretary in a defense firm again.
I. Hated. It.
I realized while I sat in the hallway of this tiny firm, with NO responsibility, that I was a good paralegal.
I enjoyed helping people.
I felt. . . am I really going to say this out loud - I felt like I made a difference at the end of the day.
Granted, generally, while I was at the larger firm, speaking with doctors and those who run facilities - they did not want to talk to me. "No offense, but you're a secretary. May I please speak to the attorney?"
Oh - no offense taken.
Wrong - all sorts of offense taken.
But when I worked with "real" people - I enjoyed it. I got to meet them, get to know them, cry with them (I am a HUGE sympathy crier) - and, most importantly, help them.
Okay - so I'm not a Prosecutor. . . but still. . . . .
Then, one day, right before the end of the year in 2005. . . the office manager of the little defense firm called me in the conference room and told me that they weren't busy enough and they were going to have to let me go. Actually, truth be told, it was the managing partner with the office manager. They were nice about it and promised a nice reference. . . .
And I packed my stuff in a box.
And left.
Relieved.
Terrified.
But relieved.
I had been looking for a job for months. And I had only been there seven.
Three weeks into unemployment and a week before my birthday, I got a phone call from an agency wanting to know if I was still looking. I apparently contacted them while I was looking and forgot about it.
Yes, I about screamed into the phone.
It's perfect, the woman told me.
Okay, stop. That's not what she told me.
She told me the former secretary got up and walked out.
I laughed. Secretaries do not get up and walk out for no reason.
She hesitated. . . told me the name of the guy.
I said - okay, but you tell "Mr. Big" - we'll call him Mr. Big - "he throws a stapler at me, I'm throwing it back."
I have been there five years.
I. Love. My. Job.
It's not all roses and perfume and warmth and happiness.
And, just for the record, there are no staplers being thrown.
Temper tantrums, maybe, but never office objects.
It's alot of hard work. There's alot of tears, sometimes my own.
Alot of days are long and difficult. . . some fly by.
So that's what my blog will be about.
The Diva at work. Working hard. Day in and day out.
I've got a ton of great clients. I've got a handful of difficult ones.
I will never reveal their names.
Some, I've sat and cried and will never forget them.
Others, sadly, not so much.
I won't blog every day. Hey, cut me some slack. I sit at a computer all day - unless I'm driving to Rocky River to pick up a Will and get it filed with Probate Court . . . at 3:00 in the afternoon.
But alas, I won't share that story now. . . that, my friends, will be for another day.
Same with the time I went to Geauga County Court...was late (which is never my fault, by the way yet seems to be a big issue). I was running and threw my keys at the deputy - I was afraid I was going to get tazed.
Or the time. . . .
So - welcome to "The Day In The Life".
And thank you for reading.
Diva, out.
I mean, isn't everyone writing blogs now?
Allow me to introduce myself. Seems like a great beginning.
I am a paralegal. Not a journalist. Not a doctor. Not a sales person. Not a vet.
Although I love animals.
No lives are saved at the end of the day when I turn off my computer - except maybe my own.
I don't sell anything. I help people wade through the difficult legal system.
Specifically, I am a Plaintiff paralegal. Of course, it didn't start out that way.
I worked for years as a legal secretary in a defense medical malpractice firm in Ohio. Loved that job. We sat at beautiful desks made of mahogany; we took up two floors and the insurance company who insured the doctors / facilities / groups took up two floors. Everyone working together in peace and harmony. . . .
Wait. It's starting to sound like a Disney movie; no offense to Disney, of course.
We somewhat all got along. . . . then the department of insurance stepped in and took over. Seems the CEO / President of the insurance company "allegedly" embezzled upwards of $10 Million Dollars and we were all out of jobs.
In the blink of an eye - 13 years, gone.
Somewhere back in time, mixed in that 13 years, I decided I wanted to go to law school. I mean, I worked with new associates all the time and discovered - the "seasoned" secretaries were the ones training the associates. (Along with the partners, naturally.) Law school teaches how to research and apparently how to think. Not how to file pleadings. Not how to prepare documents. Obviously, if they could do it, so could I. Obviously.
But I didn't want to defend doctors. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
And I didn't want to represent people in car accidents - sorry, collisions.
Or do probate work. Or work for a corporation.
I wanted to be the Prosecutor. Not Assistant Prosecutor.
Prosecutor.
Of Cuyahoga County, Ohio.
Yeah, I know. No money. It's not about the money. It's about helping abused women. Or it was for me, anyway, in my mind.
So I went to school. Husband traveled 5 days a week. Two small boys. . . . and I worked full time.
I went on the weekends.
For. 8. Years.
8. Years.
Every other weekend.
Poised to graduate "shortly" - there was a glitch with a stupid computer class and I had to take "just this one last class" my counselor told me. . . . . I discovered I was pregnant with a wonderful "bonus" baby.
Just like that.
Going to school for 8 years - to get the B.A. I needed to go to law school. . . . in the blink of an eye. . . . halted. Not over. Just on pause. I'll go back. . . someday. I mean, law school isn't going anywhere.
While I was in school, the firm shut down and I traveled down the street to another firm (not nearly as large)with the attorney I worked with for 8 of those 13 years. I worked there another 5 years, but never really fit in.
I'm not an ass kisser. Sorry for the language. But I'm not. I'm the one who sits in meetings - in the board room - listening to the big head blather on and on about all the wonderful changes the firm is making "to help you do your job better" - and I'm the one who says "wait, whose stupid idea was that?"
Everyone turns to look at me. Waiting for me to open my mouth - asking the questions they are all afraid to ask. Because face it - generally, they are all stupid ideas. And, you can't fix stupid.
When I was not offered a paralegal position at firm two, due to my inability to kiss anyone's ass - and some garbage about this attitude problem. . . I moved to a well-known Plaintiff firm to represent Plaintiffs in malpractice cases.
I had to take everything I had done for 13 years, and do the total opposite.
Now, I wasn't filing Answers - I was drafting Complaints. Against the very people I used to help represent.
Watching statutes to make sure we didn't miss one. Getting medical records. Ugh. The medical records.
One of the larger facilities in town had a "Chinese wall" built so I couldn't work on any of "their" cases for over a year.
A "Chinese wall" is just what it sounds - figuratively. I was forbidden from doing work or listening about cases or giving my opinion on any case that had to do with this facility.
That facility didn't realize - by doing that, they were significantly cutting off my ability to make a living. I was entitled to bonuses based on the cases I worked on. No working on them - no bonuses.
This too, shall pass.
I didn't fit in there, either. Too "clicky". Too "junior high school". Not even high school - junior high.
I. Was. Fired.
It was personal.
Really didn't care.
Wait - I cared. But I pretended like I didn't.
I went back downtown briefly to work as a secretary in a defense firm again.
I. Hated. It.
I realized while I sat in the hallway of this tiny firm, with NO responsibility, that I was a good paralegal.
I enjoyed helping people.
I felt. . . am I really going to say this out loud - I felt like I made a difference at the end of the day.
Granted, generally, while I was at the larger firm, speaking with doctors and those who run facilities - they did not want to talk to me. "No offense, but you're a secretary. May I please speak to the attorney?"
Oh - no offense taken.
Wrong - all sorts of offense taken.
But when I worked with "real" people - I enjoyed it. I got to meet them, get to know them, cry with them (I am a HUGE sympathy crier) - and, most importantly, help them.
Okay - so I'm not a Prosecutor. . . but still. . . . .
Then, one day, right before the end of the year in 2005. . . the office manager of the little defense firm called me in the conference room and told me that they weren't busy enough and they were going to have to let me go. Actually, truth be told, it was the managing partner with the office manager. They were nice about it and promised a nice reference. . . .
And I packed my stuff in a box.
And left.
Relieved.
Terrified.
But relieved.
I had been looking for a job for months. And I had only been there seven.
Three weeks into unemployment and a week before my birthday, I got a phone call from an agency wanting to know if I was still looking. I apparently contacted them while I was looking and forgot about it.
Yes, I about screamed into the phone.
It's perfect, the woman told me.
Okay, stop. That's not what she told me.
She told me the former secretary got up and walked out.
I laughed. Secretaries do not get up and walk out for no reason.
She hesitated. . . told me the name of the guy.
I said - okay, but you tell "Mr. Big" - we'll call him Mr. Big - "he throws a stapler at me, I'm throwing it back."
I have been there five years.
I. Love. My. Job.
It's not all roses and perfume and warmth and happiness.
And, just for the record, there are no staplers being thrown.
Temper tantrums, maybe, but never office objects.
It's alot of hard work. There's alot of tears, sometimes my own.
Alot of days are long and difficult. . . some fly by.
So that's what my blog will be about.
The Diva at work. Working hard. Day in and day out.
I've got a ton of great clients. I've got a handful of difficult ones.
I will never reveal their names.
Some, I've sat and cried and will never forget them.
Others, sadly, not so much.
I won't blog every day. Hey, cut me some slack. I sit at a computer all day - unless I'm driving to Rocky River to pick up a Will and get it filed with Probate Court . . . at 3:00 in the afternoon.
But alas, I won't share that story now. . . that, my friends, will be for another day.
Same with the time I went to Geauga County Court...was late (which is never my fault, by the way yet seems to be a big issue). I was running and threw my keys at the deputy - I was afraid I was going to get tazed.
Or the time. . . .
So - welcome to "The Day In The Life".
And thank you for reading.
Diva, out.
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