In the your-tax-dollars-at-work department . . . someone from our office went to pick up a file from a municipal agency that we've done work for for years. The file wasn't where it was supposed to be, so they went up to the office of the person from whom the assignment came. Naturally, that individual was not in their office, but the file was -- with a page on top of it stating that it was to be picked up by us.

However, since it was NOT in the usual pick-up location, a team of six civil servants stood around debating for nearly an hour whether or not it was OK for our people to remove the file; the person who assigned us the case eventually returned and said "Oh, of course you can take it -- it's meant for you." Hilariously typical.

Baby Shower Bullshit

I've said for years that my office is a sitcom waiting to happen. The latest installment in the insanity was a baby shower for a secretary who's been a pure, unadulterated bitch for the past 8 months (as opposed to the 99% pure shit-stirrer she is the rest of the time).

This one expected to be paid a full-time salary to work part-time at home (leaving aside the issue that she only works part time in the office anyway . . . personal phone calls in another language on her cell don't really constitute "work," in my opinion) and threw a hissy fit of epic proportions when this proposition was shot down. Bitched and moaned constantly, to the point where even her office friends were fed up; and refused to speak with half the office (then wondered why she was being shunned by those same people).

Other assorted insanity includes a file clerk who is terminally weird and has a huge crush on one of the guys in the office (who in all likelihood would rather open a vein than do her); she's been coming into work in evening attire, reeking of some kind of perfume (to use the term loosely) that makes everyone else in the place gag, in an effort to win him over. Everyone knows about this crush, but she is blissfully unaware of that fact, which is a blessing, I suppose. A girl can dream, can't she?

Today we gave a check to a client who, by all rights, should've gotten nothing -- in terms of stupidity, this was mind-boggling. Bought a used vehicle (for a lot of money) for cash . . . no receipt, no proof of purchase . . . left it at a garage, from whence it was promptly stolen (no doubt by one of their less-than-exemplary employees). Our intrepid client wanted his money back. Understandable, but attempts to explain to him that having some proof that he actually owned the vehicle and paid what he said he had paid might be a nice start fell on deaf ears. A young associate somehow pulled an entire herd of rabbits out of a hat and managed to finagle money out of the garage's insurance company for this guy, and today the check finally cleared in the escrow account so we were able to pay him. Why is it that the value of a case is always in inverse proportion to the amount of agita it causes?