|That’s a stamp, whippersnappers.|
In the last year, my areas of specialization and legal support duties have expanded to include immigration, federal criminal, and Social Security disability cases, which I love, except for the communication with federal agencies part.
More accurately, the attempt to communicate with federal agencies part.
In order not to end up on any government, er, hit lists, let us just say that none of these agencies is overly fond o’ the email, the electronic data, or giving out direct contact information in any way, shape, or form, period, end of statement.
Shoot, I’m not even sure they’re too keen on publishing real telephone numbers.
All contact should be in writing, on bond paper, hole-punched, not directed to a recipient with an actual name or job title, and preferably delivered via Pony Express.
So I spend a lot more time on the telephone than I used to, when my preferred method of communication is a 140-character Tweet, because BAM! you can get to the point, like, instantly.
It only took my first time holding for an hour with the feds to learn to pee first before ya call ’em. And don’t drink iced tea before making any such wild and crazy contact efforts, either.
So today, I call the same federal agency I’ve been calling every day, and sometimes twice a day, leaving the same professional, detailed, but perhaps slightly and increasingly pathetic voice mail for anyone’s extension that I can reach before the voice mail system says all mythical reps are busy hangs up on me, begging for a return call so that I can move forward in my life and in my case load.
I tell my lovely supervising attorney as she passes my desk that I’ve left yet another voice mail, and does she know that a key player with a girl’s name is actually a boy, so don’t make that mistake
like I did.
She encourages me to call again tomorrow.
You betcha I will. ‘Cause I’m a paralegal, and I’ll be here all week. But there’s no veal.
(Which is okay, because, ugh, veal.)