" . . . and they call it La Brutta Notte."

I work as a legal proofreader. My Facebook friends know that when I proof, I will often put up as my status, "Time to make the donuts!" a reference to an old Dunkin' Donuts commercial where the poor baker is running himself ragged "making the donuts." 

Yesterday, I did not make donuts.

Instead, I made a metaphorical pizza.

Yesterday I spent approximately nine hours (not consecutive, thank God!) working on a transcript that had an English-Italian translator. The deponent spoke Italian so a translator came in to help with the testimony. The recording I listened to was seven hours long. 

I'd already done a spell check and other things I could do without listening to the recording of the deposition, and I'd decided to set aside all of Tuesday to listen to the recording of the transcript and make the necessary changes. The transcript was due today, and despite everything, I got it in.

In Lady and the Tramp, during their famous spaghetti dinner scene, the happy couple is serenaded by someone singing, "they call it La Bella Notte." 

There was nothing "bella" about this transcript. I looked up "bad" in Italian and found the word "brutta," and "brutta" was exactly how it went. (Note:  This is not meant to be a dig at the people I work for. Since it's the legal profession, fast turnaround times are the norm. I've been proofing for about nine years and I'm used to getting stuff due in 24-48 hours. I'm privileged to be able to work from home and have flexible hours. Plus, the money I earn goes toward paying off debt, which I also appreciate.)

To begin with, I spent the first hour trying to get my printer to print. I eventually got most of the problem solved . . . except for, my printer now will not print a PDF file at all. 

When I finally dove into the transcript, it became an example as to why a 15-minute quarter in a football game does not last 15 minutes. I had to stop, make corrections, listen, stop, etc. and the mental effort required to do so took an especial toll on me. 

Adding to the frustration was receiving a letter concerning paperwork I thought I had turned in, but which apparently was not received by the party that needed it. The paperwork is on a PDF file, which, as I mentioned before, I can't print out because the printer has decided not to cooperate.  Me glaring at it and informing it that I have ways of making it work . . . well, is not working. 

There were parentheticals (notations made in the transcript such as (Exhibit 1 Marked For Identification) I needed to take out, and parentheticals I ended up leaving in because I didn't know if I needed to take them out. 

And all the while, the voice of the deponent pounding away at me in Italian and the poor translator trying to give an accurate translation. Fortunately, when a deposition involves two languages, the court reporter/transcriber/proofreader only has to worry about getting down the English. (The last time I proofed a deposition that had two languages, the other language was Urdu, which is a national language of Pakistan. My hat is off to anyone that can read/write/translate English and languages such as Urdu, Farsi, Dari, Vietnamese, etc.)  

I'd been awake since before 5 a.m., and at one point, needed to go lie down for about an hour because I was just plain exhausted. 

I finally finished the "brutta notte" around 10 p.m. or so, told my BFF I was going to bed, and went, fully expecting to have either dreams or nightmares starring Marlon Brando and/or Al Pacino, all set to the theme music of The Godfather. 

Well, neither Brando, Pacino, nor The Godfather soundtrack made it into my dreams, and thankfully, I didn't awaken covered in blood and in bed with the head of a decapitated horse. 

The final exclamation point came this morning, when I went to a doctor's appointment . . . and was told it was next week.

So, not only was it a "brutta notte", the "brutta" bled over into the next day! 

I was able to redeem some of the "brutta" by stopping at Walmart and picking up some needed groceries, and took a nap after lunch.

There are two more transcripts to do before I can relax and enjoy a long weekend. Fortunately, neither of them look like they will have an Italian translator. 

In the meantime, if you hear vague mutterings that resemble Italian from the direction of Atlanta, order me up either some spaghetti and meatballs or a pizza and have it sent to me. I'll eat it while watching The Godfather. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Anyone have a hobbit hole for rent?

Okay, guys, I need a hobbit hole. Preferably in New Zealand, although they are back in lockdown after one case of COVID. 

It all started on Tuesday, when I went to a new skin doctor and was told that I needed, among other things, to wear a pair of compression stockings. After hearing that, I feel like I should also be shopping for a walker and/or cane. (The stockings are for a good reason; to improve blood circulation, but I still can’t shake the feeling that these are for people older than I am! I will be 58 in October.) 

Yesterday, I measured my leg to get a proper fit for said stockings. My thigh circumference is bigger than Scarlett O’Hara’s waistline in Gone With the Wind! (No, I will not reveal my thigh measurements.) No wonder Southern women were always getting the vapors and fainting.  They couldn’t breathe! 

Next, I spent thirteen hours over two days proofreading a transcript littered with inaudibles, mistranscriptions, dropped words, dropped portions of sentences, and sentences that were completely dropped from the transcript.  This was not the court reporter’s fault; she was working under difficult circumstances. Nor is it my employer’s fault.  They work to meet deadlines from above.  The person who did the transcription . . . I’ll be charitable and say that they probably need plenty of practice.

Then yesterday, I started seeing reports about a truck parked near the US Capitol which allegedly had explosives.  After January 6th, that would be frightening enough.  

When I heard where the truck was, my eyes nearly popped.  

It would halfway make sense if that truck was parked outside of the Capitol, the White House, the Supreme Court, or even the Jefferson Memorial.

But the place where this nutcase chose to park his truck and air his complaints was . . . The Library of Congress.

I’m a former librarian. What this guy did was not just unlawful and dangerous. It amounts to blasphemy!

I was left shaking my head and thinking, The Library of Congress? Of all places? 

****

My above comments should be read with an appropriate amount of snark. These below comments are meant to be read without snark. 

When the nutcase parked his truck, employees at the Library of Congress and surrounding buildings had to be evacuated. I wonder how many people had flashbacks to January 6th, especially the Capitol Police. When you hear the word “bomb” you have to take it seriously. Especially in this day and age. 

I snark about wearing compression stockings, but they’re for a good health reason. At least I know where I can get them. And I hope it will help my skin problems (I have stasis dermatitis on my left leg.)

My job can be stressful at times, but I’m employed. Many are not. 

I told my husband that my experience proofing that particular transcript was a new definition of hell . . . but Afghani refugees, and Afghanis who can’t get out — especially women and girls — are living their own hell which is much worse than me having to proofread a difficult transcript. 

But yeah, I’d still like to have a hobbit hole to hide out in, if for no other reason than to have an excuse for a second breakfast. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Making donuts and selling oil

"Time to make the donuts!"

If you follow me on Facebook, you've probably seen me post that line at one time or another.  A church friend who follows me on Facebook recently asked, "Who do you make donuts for?"

After I finished laughing, I explained, and here's an expanded explanation of what I do when I "make donuts".

I proofread deposition transcripts for civil cases.  I work from home.  The people I work for are a court reporting firm in another state.  Most of the transcripts they send me and that I proof are along the lines of auto accidents, malpractice suits, workman's comp, and the like.  The shortest transcript I've proofed is about nine pages.  The longest has been over 300 pages.  I don't think I've gotten to 400 pages yet.

Because of the nature of the work, most of the assignments I get have a next-day turnaround time.  I often feel like Sam the Baker in this Dunkin' Donuts commercial, especially at the end where he is meeting himself coming and going.  So when I was ready to go to work, I started posting on Facebook, "Time to make the donuts!" 

(In fairness to the people that run the firm I work for, I imagine they often feel like Sam the Baker as well.  And the woman in charge now has infant twins.  She probably feels like she is constantly "making donuts" in a sense.) 

A Facebook friend who has also been in the court reporting industry led me to this job after I talked about the student loan debt I'd run up being in court reporting school.  After I told the person in charge who I was, who'd suggested me, and my school experience, she started sending me work.  I work as an independent contractor and therefore, I get to report my earnings to the IRS every tax year.  (And if I am ever tempted to cheat, there are two things that will stop me:  One, Romans 13:6-7 commands us to pay our taxes.  Two, I am married to an IRS employee.) 

When I get paid, I look at the amount and drool, "Oooh, money!"

Then I think of the student loan debt and groan, "Ohhh, bills." 

Then I remember another Bible verse, Romans 13:8:  "Let no debt remain outstanding." 

And then I go to the Wells Fargo website and pay the bill due. :-) 

In addition to making donuts, there's another metaphor that applies to the work I'm doing right now and why I'm doing it.

In 2 Kings 4, the Bible tells the story of a widow who cried out to the prophet Elisha that her husband's creditor was coming to take her two sons as slaves in payment of a debt he owed. 

Elisha asked, what do you have in your house?

She said, nothing but a small jar of olive oil. 

He told her to ask all her neighbors for empty jars -- a lot of empty jars, not just a few.  She was then to shut the door behind her and her sons, pour oil into all the jars, and set each aside as it was filled. 

She did that.  The oil kept flowing until she was out of jars. 

When she told Elisha what she'd done, he said, go, sell the oil and pay your debts.  You and your sons can live on what is left. 

God has not seen fit to rain down money from heaven.  But he has provided me with a way to "sell oil" and "fill jars".  The "oil" I sell is my skill as a proofreader.  The people I work for gladly fill my jars with work. :-) 

There are other "jars" that get filled due to the people I work for and the work I do.  My "jar" gets filled with money, and then that "jar" gets emptied into the bank account of the United States Department of Education.  (I sometimes think that that jar is more like a bottomless pit, but that may be another blog post for another day.) 

Because people have legal needs, and those needs must be documented, there will always be a cycle of "jars" to be filled:  depositions that generate transcripts, then transcripts that go to scopists (the people that edit them), then edited transcripts that go to proofers, and then proofed transcripts that go back to the lawyers. 

On the days I feel like Sam the Baker, I also try to remember that in a sense, I am a "widow" with "jars full of oil" that I can sell to pay off debts.

So, next time you see me post about "making donuts", not only am I making donuts, I am also filling jars with oil in order to sell.  And for that, I am grateful.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.