The city hall where I work is infested with mice.

Julie, the city prosecutor, is the third least tidiest person in the whole world. Seconded by my teenage brother Eric, and trumped by my little sister who only has to look at a room to make it messy. One day I was searching for a file on Julie’s desk. Among the random string of chips, gum, chocolate bars and paperwork, I found the file. I also found a little mouse turd. Right next to the package of cookies.

I went to hand Terri, my boss, the file I found. “Terri,” I said, “there is a mouse poop on Julie’s desk.” Terri grabbed my wrist for support, and drug me into the office to show her exactly where this mouse had pooped.

I think it’s funny when Terri is mad. I don’t try to make her mad, but I am an intern after all.

“That is so gross! There is a damn mouse pooping all over everything! We’re all going to get a disease like rabies or something!” Terri hugged herself tightly and stomped her feet. “That’s it. All of this shit has to go. I’m telling Brett.”

Brett is the city attorney. I think Brett likes it when Terri is mad, too.

“Alisa! Show Brett where that thing left a poop on Julie’s desk!” Brett looked at me. I looked at Brett. We looked at Terri. Terri was washing her hands frantically.

“Yes. That is definitely a mouse dropping. I’ll put in a work order to have mouse traps set,” Brett concluded. Brett was playing along, because really, we work for the government. Work orders are thrown in a box in a storage room somewhere never to see the light of day until 10 years go by. Then the work orders are terminated.

Terri huffed, “It’s because Julie leaves all this damn food just sitting around! What does she think is going to happen but have a mouse come and poop all over her stuff!”  Brett and I nodded in agreement.  I tried not to smile.

A couple weeks later Terri gave me a stack of files to go through.  I had just sat down at a computer when Terri called me.

“Alisa!”

Micromanager strikes again.  “Yes?”

“Come here and look at something.”

I plodded over to Terri’s desk.

“Is this a mouse turd?”

I leaned in to look closer.  “That is most definitely a dead cotton beetle.”

I lied.

Today at work I was looking through various companies’ presentation books–– they were trying to be the ones to help the city “brand” itself. Branding is a marketing technique to get people to recognize and remember what a product, or a city, is. For instance: Scottsdale, Arizona, is known for its high end living, rich horse owners, and expensive local shops. Florence, Arizona, is known for its multiple prisons. Florence is trying to brand itself as one of the most historic cities in Arizona; it claims that it has more historic buildings on the national registry than any other town in Arizona.

Anyways, one portfolio showed a catchy tagline for the White Mountains:

Going to a store to buy plums and coming back with a bag of prunes: not cool. The White Mountains: cool.

At first glance, it seemed okay. But the more I read it, the less sense it made. Plums? I’ve never seen a plum tree in Arizona. We don’t even have plum trees here! Plums don’t have any relevance to Arizona whatsoever. Furthermore, what do plums have to do with the White Mountains? I can’t relate to buying plums and coming back with prunes. I can’t even relate to buying plums or buying prunes. I’m not old and constipated!

I think they should have said:

Phoenix in the summer: not cool. The White Mountains: cool.

This makes sense on two levels because Phoenix is blistering hot in the summer and the White Mountains are up in Northern Arizona in the cool, pine-covered mountains. Also, for the social aspect of the word, it really isn’t cool to be hanging around Phoenix in the summer. That’s just plain stupid. Hanging around the White Mountains is socially acceptable any time of year because there is always something cool to do up there (skiing, snowboarding, hiking, fishing, camping, etc). Even old people with their prunes know that it’s stupid to be in Phoenix in the summer. They go up north.

Yesterday at the City Hall where I work, I was outside taking photos of the building for a powerpoint. A black man, about 50 years old, was riding past on his bike. He rode past me, slammed on his breaks, and did a 180.

“You’re that girl from that movie, ain’t ya!”

“No, I’m not.”

“I won’t hurt you. You can tell me! You’re that girl from the movies!”

“No, I swear I’m not. I promise. I’m not Julia Styles.”

“You can tell me! It’s okay!”

So there we were, arguing about who I may or may not be in 115 degree heat. It is the middle of summer in Arizona, after all.

“I have that movie in my house! You’re in that dancing movie!”

I pulled out my driver’s license. “Look,” I said, “My name’s Alisa. I live in this town. I’ve never been in a movie before. I promise I’m not anyone famous, and you won’t want my autograph.”

“You sure you not the girl in that movie?”

“I’m sure.”

Then he rode off, muttering to himself and shaking his head. I get that a lot. People saying that I look like Julia Styles, or that I look, “Really, really familiar.” I’ve never had anyone argue with me about it though. I almost regret not agreeing with that man. Think how happy he would have been if I had said, “Yes, I’m Julia Styles. I’m visiting my cousin who lives here in Arizona for some rest between acting jobs.” I could have made his day.

I forgot to mention when I said that Mark and Brett, two lawyers that I work for, were making fun of me, they were both wearing ASU shirts.

My response:

Brett and Mark, two lawyers that I work for, were making jokes about me going to the University of Arizona.

I told them my story of how Arizona State University accepted me without knowing anything but my name, address, and major.  Mark said that’s because ASU did an extensive background check with its alumni.  Mark then asked if I think I could pass the UofA admissions test.   Sure, I said, I guess I’m a pretty good test taker.  Mark led me to a table, told me to put my hands palms down on the table, and he did the same.

“Now,” he asked, “Which hands are yours?”

I held up my hands.  “These are my hands,” I said.

“Congratulations.  You passed the test!”

I think there might be a war soon.  Never mind that he’s a lawyer and I’m an intern.