Angelic Neela
Based on true events
6:45 A.M.
Wake up to the terrible howls of a banshee. Realize it's only your alarm clock telling you to abandon all things warm and restful for the sake of a paycheck. Think about this for a moment. Worth it? Yes...but only because it isn't Monday. Roll out of bed and mutter something unfit for polite company when your feet hit the cold floor. Pick the first professional-looking ensemble you can get your hands on. Run a comb through your hair, despite the fact that by the end of the day, you will most assuredly look like Bride of Frankenstein: Take Two. Eat some quick-grab breakfast item that only passes for breakfast because it has the word "Breakfast" printed on the box. It may or may not be made of real food, but you did find it in a grocery store. That means something, right? (At least you're not eating doughnuts again. The last of those mysteriously vanished yesterday around this same time.)
7:12 A.M.
Drive to work. The universe has decreed you must stop for four red lights, one slow-moving train and a car making a left turn...from the right lane. The universe is also having a giggle at your expense by seeing to it that the best songs always come on the radio when you're at a dead stop. Thanks, universe.
7:53 A.M.
Arrive at the office. Turn on the lights and get the coffee going. A caffineated attorney is a happy attorney. Turn on your computer and open all your programs. Turn on the copier and cross your fingers that the whole office won't go up in a mushroom cloud. All copying machines contain demons or Gremlins or something along those lines, even the brand new ones. If you are very lucky, you might make it through a full work day without needing to call in the service guy. He knows you on a first-name basis by now.
8:05 A.M.
Greet the attorney. Try not to let your amazement show when he returns your greeting. It is a court day, after all. Usually, his mind is somewhere out past the far reaches of the galaxy in an alternative dimension filled with big, scary legal terms that constantly send your spell checker into panic mode.
8:06 A.M.
First call of the day. Cranky Client doesn't even let you finish your polite "Good Morning" before he launches into a fifteen-minute story about how unhappy he is with the status of his case. By the time you manage to send him to the attorney's line, your ear is hurting and your in basket is threatening to start a paper avalanche that will require a scoop shovel to clean up. At least a few of your co-workers are making their way to their desks so you won't be juggling all three lines.
8:21 A.M.
Start working your way through the daily paperwork mountain. You've come to accept the fact that getting it all done is about as likely as growing wings and flying to the moon minus a space suit, but at this point you know how to sort out the critical stuff and keep your boss happy.
8:44 A.M.
Go through and print out today's round of emailed court notices, incoming client submissions and daily memos. Everything becomes a note on the calendar. You'll have appointments scheduled well into next year and sometimes three in one time slot. The boxes on your calendar start to look like tetris pieces after a while, only in this game, lining all the little boxes up perfectly doesn't make them magically disappear.
8:47 A.M.
Another call, this one from Panic-Stricken Buyer. Even though the closing isn't for another three months, she calls you at least once a day for an update. Reassure her that everything will go smoothly, despite the significant looks and throat-clearing noises of Big Shot Banker at their last meeting. If there's one thing Banker hates, it's lining up any kind of financing that doesn't involve multi-million dollar construction projects. What is a measly house sale to a man of such awe-inspiring importance? He gets your name wrong every time you call him.
9:00 A.M.
There's a new client on the calendar. She comes in with a binder crammed with crumpled pages that jut out at odd angles. Guess who's going to be sorting and flagging that by date and subject?
10:15 A.M.
The mail arrives. It's a light mail day...only about 50 pieces or so. Sort it all into stacks by whose name is on the envelope. Your stack is just the right height to put the work volume back to where it was when you arrived.
10:50 A.M.
The attorney is done with his appointment and on his way out the door. If he's lucky, he might only have to sit for two hours until the judge is ready for the day's case load. If you're lucky, half the cases will settle and the drawer in the filing cabinet currently threatening to collapse under its burden will last another month.
11:14 A.M.
Work like a robot until your eyes start to swim and your wrists are burning. You got through not one but three tapes this morning and now the attorney's in basket is nearly as impressive as yours. Give yourself a well-deserved rest by leaving the phones to the others and taking some time to work on filing. The file room is an oasis of quiet after hours of whirring machines, ringing phones and traffic noise. It also smells like a cross between mothballs and your grandmother's attic. Nothing is perfect. Once you've emptied the "To Be Put Away" cart, resign yourself to the fact that there isn't enough here to get to the lunch hour. Return to your desk and pound out a few more letters. If you can get through five minutes without glancing at the clock, you deserve some kind of medal.
12:00 P.M.
Lunch time! Wonderful, beautiful, life-preserving food! Enjoy every bite. You're going to need that energy.
12:19 P.M.
Of course you can't get through your lunch hour without at least one phone call. To make matters worse, the caller spends ten minutes arguing with you only to discover he has the wrong number.
1:00 P.M.
Good things never last. Lunch is over and it's time to tackle that titanic project you put off all morning. Assembling trial binders is neither glamorous nor particularly fun, but it is necessary and your hyper-perfectionist work style has earned you the distinction of Binder Assembler. The plus side? You get to ignore the phones for the next hour and a half. The down side? You're going to hear the whir-chung of the copier in your nightmares tonight. One time you actually dreamed that the copier ate you, legs first. Stupid subconscious.
2:22 P.M.
Stack the binders neatly in a box. Go through another dozen files, checking the status with a phone call here, an email there. Glance at your calendar and realize that somebody has set the attorney up for a last-minute appointment at four. He's going to love that. Realize that you're out of paper clips for the third time today. Go to the supply room. Realize you're nearly out of three other things that get used every day. Scramble to get an order placed before 3:00.
2:56 P.M.
It's snack time. You don't care if the president himself walks in and demands an audience. You are eating your snack right here, right now. The rest of the world can wait for five minutes. Anything that can be munched quickly is good. Dried fruit. Mixed nuts. Trail mix. Bonus points if chocolate is listed in the ingredients. Chocolate preserves sanity. It really does. They should print that on the bag.
3:30 P.M.
The attorney returns, looking about ten years older. Long day at court sir? Yes. That's all he says. His body language tells you more than a tirade ever could. You feel bad for him. You also secretly pat yourself on the back for deciding not to continue on to law school.
4:00 P.M.
Late Comer is one of those clients that reminds you why you got into the legal field in the first place. She's always nice when she walks in the door, smiling and thanking you for announcing her to the attorney. She's patient while she waits for him to finish his current call. When she leaves, she makes it a point to say good-bye to everybody. She's taken the time to learn all the names.
4:20 P.M.
The attorney is on his way out for the day. He's whistling a bit as he says goodbye to everybody. Your co-workers trickle out one by one once he's gone. One has to pick up the kids from soccer practice. Another is going to the next town over to look at lawn furniture. As long as they all shut their computers down and don't leave you standing an extra twenty minutes, they are welcome to go practice their rodeo clown skills for all you care.
4:58 P.M.
Turn off the machines and lights. Turn on the answering machine. Clean the coffee pot and see to it the attorney's files for the next day are all in his office, stacked so that none of them will leave you playing 520 page pick-up. Lock up behind yourself and toss your purse on the passenger seat. It's time to go home.
5:33 P.M.
Somehow you managed to get a whole string of green lights. Instead of preparing a healthy and nutritious home-cooked meal like your grandmother taught you, settle for something out of a box or a can. Sometimes you even get cans that are stacked inside a box. As long as they take less than five minutes to heat in the mircowave and taste halfway real, they're good enough for a meal.
6:20 P.M.
Do the dishes. Yes, this is the most thankless chore known to humankind but once you've run out of plates and had to eat steaming hot soup out of a cheap foam cup a few times, you learn that some thankless jobs simply must be done. Rummage through the pantry until you come up with a half bag of popcorn and a few chocolate sandwich cookies. Going to the store at this time of evening holds no appeal so you declare these to be your dessert and settle down on the couch.
7:00 P.M.
Watch your favorite show. It might be an action-drama show, a romantic comedy or the tail end of a game. There's no one around to argue about your choice. Your lover is working the evening shift about eight out of every seven days and what family you have left lives two hours away. Yes, the evenings get lonely but you live with the belief that someday you're going to make more than you owe for achieving that fancy education. Worth it? Yes...but only because you let your father annoy you into working for him one summer in high school. It was a lesson in hard labor that made you start to seriously think about a professional career.
8:00 P.M.
TV is terrible the rest of the night. Turn off the set and just sort of snuggle down into the cushions for a nice hour of relaxation. Groan when the doorbell rings. It's your neighbor. Could I pretty please with sugar and chocolate chips and graham cracker crumbs and plump black cherries on top borrow just one teensy-weensy, teeny-tiny little cup of flour to make some extra tasty, delicious, yummy sugar cookie drops? Your neighbor is a walking thesaurus. They can literally turn a one word answer into an eleven-word answer. You want to get rid of them quickly without admitting the sad state of your kitchen. The only baking ingredient you own at the moment is one small jar of table salt. It's not even one you bought. It's one your mother gave you...as a going away present for college, seven years ago. Put on your best shame-faced look and admit that you used the last of your flour last night to make homemade noodles for your chicken soup. Your neighbor will pout a bit and sigh, then decide tomorrow would be a lovely day for a run to the store not only for flour but for milk and eggs and potatoes and carrots. Wish them a good evening as they continue to verbally build their entire grocery list.
8:07 P.M.
Settle down to read a good book. Manage to get right to the most suspenseful part before the bulb above your head blows out. Spend the next twenty minutes risking life and limb as you stand on a rickety chair doing your best to get the light fixture down without taking it directly on the top of your head. By the time you actually get the stupid bulb in place, you will be sweating hard enough to wish you had something cold and icy in the fridge. Since your fridge is roughly the size of a mailbox, it's amazing you can stock a week's worth of frozen meals in the even smaller upper freezer. Settle for a towel that's been run under cold water.
9:40 P.M.
Start thinking about your day and spend the next forty minutes staring blankly at a wall, daydreaming about what it would be like to win the lottery and never worry about money again. Realize you forgot to pick up a lottery ticket when you put gas in the car. Think about going out for the ticket and discard the idea. Too much energy required. Play solitaire on your trusty laptop instead. Break the record for points scored in one hundred consecutive games. Your high score is now 1,007,482. That sort of makes you a millionaire. Check email. Check on when your next car payment is due. Check Subeta for new news. A new pet color? Awesome! Someday you'll be able to afford that next pet slot...at which time you'll have at least seven character ideas to choose from. Do a bit of trick-or-treating and try for a new avatar skin at the Zapper. *sigh* Red Snake again...for the second time in a row. Better luck next time.
10:24 P.M.
Power down the computer and wander aimlessly. Go to the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom, and back to the living room. Stare out the window and watch the street lamps come on. Look for patterns in the ugly abstract carpet. There's a knobby blob to the left of your foot that looks sort of like a lobster eating a hamburger. Weird. Stall going to bed as long as you can until your eyes get that annoying prickly feeling that says you're pushing your luck.
11:52 P.M.
Get ready for bed. Hot showers are second only to chocolate in things that keep sanity from going bye-bye.
11:57 P.M.
It's nearly midnight and where are you? Tucked into bed dreaming sweet dreams of unused vacation days? Of course not. You're on Subeta, holding your breath as you prepare to click the button for another go at the Zapper. There are only a few days left of Morostide and there's that one skin you simply *must* have. Click. Oh, come on! Magma again? Why??? That does it, time for bed. Is it Friday tomorrow? No? Wait, what do you mean today was only Tuesday? You mean there are another three whole work days in the week? The universe is having another side-splitting giggle at your expense.
Thanks, universe.
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