By: Jamie Collins
Welcome back to the paralegal playground on this fabulous Friday (or darn near it), my friends. Why is it fabulous? Because it’s TGIF time—that’s why! Get your disco clothes out, peeps—It. Is. On. (Okay, okay, we can just roll with sweatpants, a hair clip, and fuzzy socks. Whatever. We’re easy like that. But do be a joiner.) For our first move, we’ll be doing “the hustle,” as in…hustle yourself right on out of those law firm doors! Woot, woot. Anyway, we’re here because I took it upon myself to write another one of those paralegal humor posts. Rumor has it—I’m wicked funny. Or crazy. I cannot recall which. (Okay, both—clearly, both.)
(Fabulous photo created via the Bitstrips app by the fearless founder in honor of this rather important paralegal holiday.)
My near death experience.
Firstly (is that actually a word? No underline, it must be. I am apparently now British or something), ahem, beginning again…firstly, I felt it important that I share a picture of the fearless founder’s recent near death experience. No, I’m not joking. You didn’t hear about it?
I woke up one morning last week at a far-too-early time of 5:40 a.m. (that a.m. stands for in “advance of the madness”) to take Mister Cutie to an orthodontist appointment. We arrive at the office of the brilliant people to whom we paid thousands of dollars in the name of straight teeth. The assistant takes Mister G back to work on his fabulous junior braces, at which point I decide to visit the ladies room; that special place for people who are not yet fully awake. Oh hell, make that “not awake at all.” I was not awake in the slightest. Ahem. Carrying on…I was sitting on “the throne,” you know, the one for those ultra special blogger types, when suddenly and without warning, I nearly died. Yep. I. Nearly. Died. The fearless founder darn near suffered a stroke. I’m pretty sure I had no pulse for at least a sliver in time. Okay, not really. But I did feel inclined to share a picture with my favorite paralegal peeps to depict this rather catastrophic event.
I know what you’re thinking, “WTH is she talking about—it’s a bottle of tea sitting on a little ledge.” True. But what you may fail to realize is that the little friggin’ ledge is slanted forward ever so slightly (but just slightly enough), so whilst the Queen was tending to her royal duties and trying to wake the hell up, that bottle of tea (my life’s nectar) slid off of that damn ledge, and dashed across my line of vision, crashing to the ground of the stall in which I was seated (thankfully, with the lid still on the bottle), scaring me half to damn death. I only felt it right to alert my favorite paralegal peeps and warn of this inherently treacherous threat that may be lurking in a nearby bathroom stall. Beware, y’all. Be very aware. And yes, it did wake me the hell up. A near death experience will do that for a person.
Let’s never speak of this again. That said, feel free to share it with your friends. Moving on…
Fear of death by elevator.
I’m pretty sure it is well-established in paralegal circles that I have developed a fear of elevators, since relocating to the new gig in the “big city” of downtown Indianapolis, where there are far too many friggin’ elevators; ones that don’t ever seem to want to work right. As of the time of this writing, I have yet to be trapped. (This is me knocking on wood. Like thirty times. Make that thirty-two thousand times.) It is readily known to all of the hard working folks who work alongside me that the firm now has a top secret call to alert fellow co-workers within an earshot (Read: anywhere within my building if you do not see me in front of you) to send them in to a state of high alert. (Read: If you hear the super-secret signal, you get the hell up and rescue people.) It remains in full force and effect at all times. It is no laughing matter, people. If you’re ever trapped in the elevator in our building, here’s the super-secret code you must know: It’s “Caw, caw.” Followed by an alarm button and screaming. (Maybe even a little jumping up and down, as rumor would have it. But I digress.)
Anyway, I was headed to the office one day not so long ago. I made my way into the parking garage. (Check). I parked the paralegal Batmobile. (Check). I walked up the ramp. (Check.) I stepped onto the elevator, the door closes in front of me, and THIS is what I saw:
As if my fear of elevators wasn’t already at an epic level. I am now seeking counseling. (Okay, I’m kidding. But I fear we are not too far off…) Nothing says reassurance like the “help me hand smears” all across the elevator door of the elevator a person is currently riding on. I shall depict my second near death experience when it unfolds before my eyes (and Siri’s) via iPhone 6S. You better believe it. (Oh Lawd, help us all.) I do pray the coworkers do not forget that very important tidbit about getting the hell up to rescue people. Caw, caw!!!
Paralegals as problem solvers. Namely, me.
Most of you know I recently purchased a new home. (One of the greatest moments of my adult life, I do admit.) I cannot even begin to tell you how absolutely exciting that was. But it also involved a whole hell of a lot of packing and moving. (Let’s never do that again, okay? Don’t answer that. We’re staying put for life or selling every item we own in the event of a future move.) Anyway, when it came to the packing of a certain someone’s ultra-fabulous high heel collection, she feared that the aforementioned fabulous high heels would somehow become casualties of “the move,” resulting in utterly crumpled, wrinkled up, straight-up-ruined shoes. So she did what any good paralegal would do, she improvised. Because that’s how we roll, people. Problem? What problem? I solved the problem!
In three words: I. Am. Brilliant. (Make that wildly brilliant with killer shoes.)
(Yes, there were multiple baskets. No, I will not make an admission as to the total number.)
However, I am happy to report zero casualties. Zero.
It’s a real win for the paralegal moving team.
A paralegal pop quiz.
I warn you in advance, this will be a bit of a trick question for most of you. No cheating or scrolling ahead. BUT THE BIG QUESTION IS: What is this a picture of?
Let me guess—Did you say fruit?
(No, seriously– you lose.) Sadly, it appears you have spent far too much time spinning paper, dancing across deadlines, and saving esquires in the legal mines to identify this rather simple staple item for hard working paralegals who have very little left by way of sanity or the ability to deal with other human beings (especially the stupid ones) on this planet. I do fear that your level for dealing with such things may be too far gone for you to even recognize this item for what it truly is.
Fruit? No. It is not fruit, people. It signals the start of something wonderful! Woot, woot. It signals the start of this:
A gift from God. (Well, it is fruit, isn’t it?) What is otherwise known as “sangria.” Served promptly after 6:30 p.m. on a day from hell. If anyone got this one right, please do disclose your identity to me immediately. You just gained extra “cool points” in my book. Should we ever meet up, we should undoubtedly slice fruit together. This may or may not involve glasses filled with ice and a lot of giggling. Cheers to that.
Halloween ain’t what it use to be.
I remember the days of mommy’s Halloween past. You spend your time flipping through the latest costume catalogs to pick out the world’s cutest costume for the little person. The elephant. The dragon. The pirate. The knight. The vampire. You even dress up alongside the little person, in a similarly themed costume, for several years running. He is the knight, you are the princess. Then you’re both vampires. Then you’re both Gangsters. You name it. Take a bunch of pictures. (Those were the days.)
Fast forward to Halloween with a 9-year-old boy and the criteria for the costume selection becomes “what is the scariest, creepiest, grossest thing possible?” (sigh).
I join him at the costume store, with self-proclaimed veto rights, only to pass forth the debit card and pay my $40 for a costume called (not so fondly), “Rotten to The Core.” (I do believe the thing was either a zombie…or perhaps, a paralegal after one too many days spent working for utterly crazy people in the legal trenches; the jury is still out at the present time.) While I do still very much enjoy spending this quality time with the person—as the trusty, faithful guardian of the debit card—I do miss those cute little costumes.
What you need to know is this: I shall stifle my sorrow with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. A hell of a lot of them. (Believe. It.) I wonder if a person can actually eat her weight in Reese’s Cups? (That sounds like a personal challenge.) Does anyone else have this problem? Well, either one—the super scary costumes, or the affinity Reese’s Cups??? I’ve earned them, people. It’s called the “mommy tax.” I’m no dummy. That’s how it’s done. Orange and brown circles of happiness. No judgment. They shall help to soothe my soul, or at least to shut me up long enough to move on to the next topic…here goes.
A critical poll regarding the incredibly enthralling topic of…(drum roll, please)…Green beans.
You are here to end an epic standoff in the Collins’ household. I rinse the green beans. I chop the twig end off of the green beans. (You know, the part that connected it to the tree.) I steam the green beans. I even add butter (yes, the real kind—after all, my dad’s family is from Wisconsin), salt, and pepper to said green beans. The hubs, well, he pulls himself up to the plate…and, I swear to you, acts as though I’ve committed an atrocity against vegetation. He believes you MUST cut the other end of the green beans as well, so THIS is what he does to them with his teeth:
(Exhibit A – Photograph of the casualties.)
(Insert utterly annoyed sigh of said salter/butterer/preparer person here.) I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, unless, of course, you buy “cut” green beans from a can or the generic, frozen, cut green beans in lieu of real green beans that you steam like a friggin’ normal, green bean loving person. The long ones, served long, because they’re fresh, that’s why! God grows fresh green beans just like this, so I’ll cut the twig off and eat ‘em just like that—I’m pretty darn sure of it. Please, please, pleeeeeeease tell me you agree with me on this topic of grave importance.
In the event you do not, I will never write for you ever again, as this would make the hubs right and I, the fearless founder (and end of the green bean eating person) wrong. I cannot bear it. Ponder it for a moment. Answer wisely. (No pressure.)
Lastly, I dedicate this to every paralegal out there who works diligently to make this one true each and every day. Here’s to you:
Happy High Heel Friday (or darn near it), everyone! Now get to hustlin’…right on out of those law firm doors! TGIF, y’all.
Please feel free to share this laugh with your paralegal friends. Leave a comment. Vote on those pesky green beans. Earn those extra “cool points” by disclosing your vast knowledge of sangria preparation. Tell me I’m funny. Say I’m crazy. Whatever. We’re totally listening.
Do the hustle…