So, one thing has become abundantly clear… I should not be at that job. Seriously, I actually had a panic attack on monday and hid under my desk.

Yeah. I debated sharing that, because it’s clearly not very Muchy but if you follow along on my FB page you can see that I am trying to make the best of the situation and think positively (PS: I am positive I am not supposed to be there.)

So, I’m a girl who looks for signs. Ya know, signs, to tell me that I am where I’m supposed to be or doing what I’m supposed to do. You may not have known that about me because for a long time I stopped looking for signs- at least on the surface. Signs include an element of “God, let me know what I’m supposed to do” and  lot of me was heavily committed to “screw you god, I’m pissed.” but, well, in the end, the signs won out.

Here’s a signs story for you to chew on.

Once upon a land, in a time called “my 20’s” I lived in an apartment that had terrible plumbing issues. I’d find my Indian neighbors hair stuck to the bottom of my tub. I point out that he was Indian because they were the type of Indian with really long beards and reeeeeally long hair that was wrapped up on a turban. My hair was short. The hair in my tub, 3 feet long. Gross. Grody. Repulsive. Disgusting.

I demanded they fix the plumbing. They lied and said it was impossible. I stopped paying rent and three months later bailed on the apartment. They came after me for the rent. In court. But when I got to court, they dropped the case.

Two years later they refiled, because they had handed the paperwork over to a scumbag lawyers whose life revolves around squeezing people by their balls for 15 cents.

I went to court. Again. Settled the case and agreed to pay the back rent because I was getting married and just wanted the nightmare to go away. I paid the settlement over the next few months, but one month shy of completing the payments, my bank account was frozen. Frantic, I called the lawyers and they refused to call me back. Had to go BACK to court multiple times (I’m living in a different state at this point) only to find out that they had not provided me the correct address on where to mail the checks. But they DID have my money. The judge was PISSED at the scumbag lawyer because this was all just a big waste of everyone’s time. Meanwhile- it was the ABSOLUTE most stressful thing in my life. I had the lawyers number filed in my phone under the name “scumbag” because that is what he was.

By the time I got married, the entire thing was ancient history. I had the paperwork to prove it.

At this point, you may be wondering why I’m telling you this story after talking about my job…. you’ll see.

So, there I was, pregnant with the twins, on bed rest and under doctors orders to “avoid stress” because that could do serious damage to the delicate balance of placental tightropeing that we were in the middle of.

And then, It arrived.

A letter from scumbag lawyer, stating if I didn’t show up in another state on the date specified, my bank account would be frozen. I was like WTFYGDMFS?!?! (You can figure out my rant…. just get creative and imagine me as pissed off as I was.)

I called the Scumbag’s office and told the kid who answered the phone that I was on bed rest with high risk twins and could not get to court. I TOLD him this was settled and paid. He told me his boss, Mr. Scumbag, would call me back, and I should fax copies of the legal documents.

I faxed. I called. I called. I faxed. Day. After. Day. Stress. After. Stress. NO RESPONSE.

None. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Waiting to see if my bank account would freeze… or what would happen

No communication.

Stressed.

After the twins died I called the courthouse and they told me the action had been delayed.

—

Months later I had to go back to the court to deal with it.

I was six months pregnant with my rainbow, Liat.

I brought a friend, a lawyer who actually went with me to the cemetery the same day.

The Scumbag wasn’t there. He sent some mini scumbag in training.

Through a mess of tears, I told him, the judge and everyone within earshot that I held that cocksucking lawyer personally responsible for the death of my daughters. It was not the only factor that took them, but I believe , without a doubt, that the stress he inflicted upon me by failing to communicate properly (and according to legal guidelines) contributed to their death. The judge told me I had grounds to file a misconduct claim against him and potentially sue. His SIT (Scumbag in Training) told me that the paperwork had been filed because of a simple clerical error. ooops! They didn’t have a copy of the piece of paper I’d faxed him multiple time. Sorry!

Again, I just wanted to put the nightmare behind me so I could finish my pregnancy and focus on my precious new baby.

That was the end of the case.

I thought I had put this all behind me.

I carry a hatred in my heart for this man, and, god as my witness, there is no-one else that I can say that for on this planet. Well, Hitler. But besides him…. just that lawyer guy. His name – which is unusual and memorable- gives me anxiety, having seen it on those envelopes and court papers for so many years…. always carrying with it the stress, and now, compounded by my associations of him as partially responsible for the death of my two daughters.

So, last week, when I saw that name on an email from my new co-worker, my heart skipped a beat. And then another.

I asked him if she knew of this lawyer.

And alas, he is her brother.

Her brother.

Her brother.

My heart didn’t stop racing all day.

Why. Why did that scumbag lawyer’s sister have to be planted in the cubicle next to  mine?

At first, I tried to see it as a sign that I should forgive him. Find forgiveness in my heart and just send it through the air to him, releasing myself from it’s weight. That would be the muchy thing to do, right?

But the truth is, I can’t do that without him knowing and understanding what he did.

So I thought of writing a letter. But then I thought- “he’ll probably sue me.”

So then I thought – “hey! I can just tell his sister!” and that idea is still sitting with me, though what an awkward work relationship THAT will create, right? That being said, she already knows I dislike him

(Todays exchange:

her: My brother had 5 teeth pulled today.
Me: Ouch. was he in a lot of pain?
her: yes.
Me: Good.)

But then, as I found myself, earlier this week, cowering under my desk having a panic attack (for the record, that’s not something I generally have) I thought- MAYBE it’s just a sign that I am not supposed to be here.

Which, well, I already knew as soon as HR told me I wasn’t allowed to wear shorts to the office.

I don’t work so well with “not alloweds”.

…wondering if any of my coworkers have bothered to google me. Maybe I’m hoping they do and she can just read this whole drama and I will get it off my chest without ever having to address it.

In other news, I’ve been making it a point to be EXTRA muchy at this office. I think it actually annoys some of the people there, who would rather drown in their sourpuss grayness.

I skip through those hallways like a dash of blinding light. Those who are not allergic to joy seem to appreciate it.

Next week, Neon.