![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
captainsblogAs I mentioned in a comment somewhere yesterday, that day's first bad experience with The Law (which, as we all know, is An Ass) came out of town, in state court. I was once again told that a document I filed three weeks ago was still not ready for me to pick up. They're very busy, she implied. One of the reasons for their busy-ness, it seems, was at the end of a trail of bright balloon-covered posters pointing the way to that day's CSEA Benefit Fair.
Whoopie shit! Here were all these hardworking employees, carrying back ditty bags from the big shindig set up for them in the Jury Assembly Room (which I did not refer to as the JAR, but I forever will do so now). All their full-benefit health plans and paid-in-full pension options, lovingly described to them on company time, and paid for, not by their payroll deductions or out of their future tax-free pensions, but by me and you other lucky New Yorkers.
Two days before, I had no benefit fair. I had to fight my way to a fair benefit. It was the day before the last day to turn in my new health insurance paperwork, along with an almost $1,800 check, for a plan that won't take effect until January and won't pay for bloody much of anything at that point unless we get really sick. There were no balloons, just a nasty notification that "everything is due in by tomorrow at 4, and we're not taking calls between 10 and 4." You can just picture them looking for reasons to reject it. Fortunately, someone did respond to my voicemailed plea to confirm that everything was in order, and I have just 20 more days to go in this hideous Limbo I'm now in.
----
While I was enjoying all of that, my wife was back in a JAR of her own 70 miles to the west, quietly fuming.
She got called in on a civil case- a slip-and-fall devoted, at this stage, only to deciding who was responsible: the homeowners association, the snowplow contractor, or, I don't know, maybe the CLUMSY PLAINTIFF WHO FELL ON HER ASS like we do several times every winter without suing anybody.
Five hours and an overpriced lunch and parking space later, she got sprung. Not for a lack of trying on the part of the lawyers. Despite disclosing on a written form that she was married to a lawyer, nobody paid attention to that until after the lawyers began their juror-by-juror interrogation. The first lawyer took close to half an hour with just the first potential juror (with at least two dozen more to be questioned by three different lawyers). At this rate, the current crop of snow would have all melted, replaced by April showers and May flowers, before this six-person jury got picked.
After the lunch break, she spoke up. Expressed her opinion about such matters. Was quickly, and mercifully, shown the door. No more of that crap for eight years. For her, anyway. (I'd still like to do it once, but only once.)
----
Meanwhile, back at the Rachacha, by that time I'd moved over to Bankruptcy Court and the hearing I had over there. I will not tell you about my client. I can, however, tell you about somebody else's client.
This is a fashion tip from Mister Ray of Not Hollywood. In your own career or education, it may be appropriate, even inspirational, to wear a hoodie that says this:
If you tell me, I won't remember.
If you show me, I MAY remember.
If you involve me, I WILL remember.
I can most assuredly tell you, this is NOT the message your bankruptcy trustee wants to hear. Not in this court, and especially not this trustee, who begins the hour with a blood-chilling tirade about the 25 (I counted) different ways you can piss off him, the Judge, and the FBI if, among other things, you say that you "don't remember."
Fortunately for the costume-challenged debtor, this message was on the back of her hoodie, and I don't think the trustee ever saw it. I, on the other hand, spent the whole hour looking at it. And head-laptopping.
----
I'm leaving for our doctor's office in a bit. He's giving us free samples of our meds for the rest of this month. Yes, we have made the medical profession seem kind and gentle in comparison.
Whoopie shit! Here were all these hardworking employees, carrying back ditty bags from the big shindig set up for them in the Jury Assembly Room (which I did not refer to as the JAR, but I forever will do so now). All their full-benefit health plans and paid-in-full pension options, lovingly described to them on company time, and paid for, not by their payroll deductions or out of their future tax-free pensions, but by me and you other lucky New Yorkers.
Two days before, I had no benefit fair. I had to fight my way to a fair benefit. It was the day before the last day to turn in my new health insurance paperwork, along with an almost $1,800 check, for a plan that won't take effect until January and won't pay for bloody much of anything at that point unless we get really sick. There were no balloons, just a nasty notification that "everything is due in by tomorrow at 4, and we're not taking calls between 10 and 4." You can just picture them looking for reasons to reject it. Fortunately, someone did respond to my voicemailed plea to confirm that everything was in order, and I have just 20 more days to go in this hideous Limbo I'm now in.
----
While I was enjoying all of that, my wife was back in a JAR of her own 70 miles to the west, quietly fuming.
She got called in on a civil case- a slip-and-fall devoted, at this stage, only to deciding who was responsible: the homeowners association, the snowplow contractor, or, I don't know, maybe the CLUMSY PLAINTIFF WHO FELL ON HER ASS like we do several times every winter without suing anybody.
Five hours and an overpriced lunch and parking space later, she got sprung. Not for a lack of trying on the part of the lawyers. Despite disclosing on a written form that she was married to a lawyer, nobody paid attention to that until after the lawyers began their juror-by-juror interrogation. The first lawyer took close to half an hour with just the first potential juror (with at least two dozen more to be questioned by three different lawyers). At this rate, the current crop of snow would have all melted, replaced by April showers and May flowers, before this six-person jury got picked.
After the lunch break, she spoke up. Expressed her opinion about such matters. Was quickly, and mercifully, shown the door. No more of that crap for eight years. For her, anyway. (I'd still like to do it once, but only once.)
----
Meanwhile, back at the Rachacha, by that time I'd moved over to Bankruptcy Court and the hearing I had over there. I will not tell you about my client. I can, however, tell you about somebody else's client.
This is a fashion tip from Mister Ray of Not Hollywood. In your own career or education, it may be appropriate, even inspirational, to wear a hoodie that says this:
If you tell me, I won't remember.
If you show me, I MAY remember.
If you involve me, I WILL remember.
I can most assuredly tell you, this is NOT the message your bankruptcy trustee wants to hear. Not in this court, and especially not this trustee, who begins the hour with a blood-chilling tirade about the 25 (I counted) different ways you can piss off him, the Judge, and the FBI if, among other things, you say that you "don't remember."
Fortunately for the costume-challenged debtor, this message was on the back of her hoodie, and I don't think the trustee ever saw it. I, on the other hand, spent the whole hour looking at it. And head-laptopping.
----
I'm leaving for our doctor's office in a bit. He's giving us free samples of our meds for the rest of this month. Yes, we have made the medical profession seem kind and gentle in comparison.