I Hate Friday Nights

Fridays are typically bad days when you work in a law office. That's because lawyers are notorious for realizing around 6am that they won't have you at their beck and call for two whole days and suddenly decide they really, really need to work on some insignificant crap or some eleventh hour deadline right now. I had neither of these experiences today. However, bossman (who I will refer to as "bosshole" until he gets back in my good graces) picked today to notice two oversights on my part: (1) I sent a client for a hearing test without sending a deposit check to the audiologist, and said audiologist (who I now think is a raging bitch, by the way) felt the need to mention in her report that "the check you referenced was not included in your letter;" and (2) I got a show cause hearing notice and put it in the file without noting it on the calendar.

In my defense, I have this to say: (1) the missing check truly baffled me, as I could have sworn I wrote it, had him sign it, and put it in with the massive pile of records we sent her. So sure that when I saw the letter from the audiologist, I went through the checkbook, through the bank statements, through the expenses, and through the file in search of proof that I was right. I didn't find any. It's not like it's the first time the check has inadvertently not made it to the physician with the records. It happens quite a bit. But isn't it just as much his fault as mine? Shouldn't he have noticed when he was finalizing the package that he hadn't signed any checks? (2) to clarify, a show cause hearing is a hearing to determine whether or not a work comp case that has been mostly inactive for a period of time should be dismissed or maintained on the Division's docket. The Division has recently switched to electronic notices--they email them to me in pdf format. This particular branch of the Division is in a dinky ass town where the internet is apparently some new-fangled fancy idea. This particular notice from said dinky ass town was mailed to me. I glanced at it, didn't recognize the case, as I haven't worked on it AT ALL in the over a year I've been there, and figured it had already been settled (this happens more often than you think--a claim settles and the Division never takes it off the docket, despite notices to that effect). If not for bosshole recalling having seen it on my desk, we both would have forgotten about it, and the claim would have been dismissed, even though it has not (apparently) been settled. Now that I think about it, the reason why bosshole recalls seeing it on my desk is because IT SAT THERE IN A STACK OF MAIL AND OTHER MISCELLANY THAT HE IGNORED FOR A GOOD TWO WEEKS BEFORE I STUCK IT ALL IN FILING.

Yeah, so he can suck it.

At any rate, he took a very disgusted tone as he pointed out my transgressions to me, as if they are regular occurrences. They're not. I'm not infallable, and I make mistakes, but I do a hell of a lot of other shit right. Not that he ever cares to mention any of that shit.

So by the time I got home, I was already in a less than fantastic mood. Throw in the fact that my arm/neck/shoulder pain is back. Goddammit. (I should probably be lying on the floor right now instead of hunched over Ben's laptop typing this--I can feel a distinct burning sensation between my shoulder blades--but I'm not quite ready to succumb to "Scrubs" reruns. Five more minutes.)

And it's supervised visitation night. Yippee.

First, I noticed as we pulled into the parking lot that half the already-small lot was blocked off for God knows why. Maybe some disgruntled asshole parent shot another parent and the tape was protecting a chalk outline. Whatever. I had to park in the tiny tiny space at the end of the lot, and this didn't make me happy.

Then I noticed the address I gave the sheriff's office this afternoon (so that they can serve db with the hearing notice on my renewal of the restraining order), the same address I took from the damn web, was off by a block. The place is on the next street north from the street name I gave them. Shit, fuck, screw.

Then I sat in The Most Uncomfortable Chair Ever while Bob had his visit. The other mom from last week was there again, but I was Not In the Mood and kept my eyes on my book. I felt somehow embarrassed, like I'd already bared enough of my soul to her last week and therefore couldn't risk eye contact this week. She brought a book, too, so it wasn't entirely awkward. My reading was occasionally interrupted with sounds from the room down the hall where the visit was taking place (three cheers for ductwork). Sounds of Bob being worked into a frenzy by db in an attempt to show how great he is at playing with his kid. Then sounds of him admonishing Bob for being too wound up and telling him to settle down. Then Bob returned from his visit with, surprise surprise, another fucking bag of candy. Every fucking week, another bag of candy. As if, like a pervert luring children off the playground into his Oldsmobile, the only way he can get Bob to talk to him is by tempting him with sugar.

I am now officially in a Shitty Mood. And I've got about an hour to dissipate it before Ben gets home.

That said, I'm going to go lie on the floor now. Cross your fingers that I can eventually get back up.

*By the way--I'd like to offer an official "thanks" to the recent encouraging comments. I had no idea anyone actually read this crap. ;) Your words really mean a lot to me. For real.