Hop Into This Stylish Death Trap!

I have mentioned commercials before that either 1) no longer make any sense or 2) rely completely upon some misplaced fear to cover their incredibly lousy job of communicating why you need their product. Now I have a new one! Presented by the 2009 Lincoln MKS, I give you a commercial sure to insinuate an ominous death in your future!

Watch the commercial here.

The commercial looks like many other car commercials, which special focus on circuits firing and cool engine combustion stuff represented by neon blue flashing lights. Pretty. My problem is that it's set to a lovely cover of Space Oddity by David Bowie. Yes, the song about the astronaut who dies in space because his space shuttle malfunctions. Why, that's JUST the sort of message I want to associate with your vehicle, Lincoln!

Come climb into the new Lincoln. Never mind that uneasy feeling of impending doom. It's probably nothing. Your circuits are probably just fine.

Can you hear me Major Tom?

Blast from the Past

Every now and then, I Google my name (in all of its many combinations) to make sure there is nothing I wouldn't want a potential client to find when checking me out. I recommend you all do the same. Anyway, this time around I started checking the really obscure pages at the back of the Gooooooooogle!, and I found something great: the 5k race results from the first race I ever ran with my best friend Melanie, way back in 1998 when we were 15 years old.

Melanie beat me by nearly 2 minutes and 40 seconds in that race, which doesn't surprise me in the least. In the intervening 10 years, Melanie has become a long-distance racing machine, while I only run when being chased. Or trying to chase away stubborn calories. Stubbornly.

What makes finding this race sheet even better is that I still have a photograph of Melanie and I from that very day, post race. Here it is:

smc and Mel, August 1998

Also in the intervening 10 years, I grew into my head and Mel learned how to open her eyes while smiling. And check out my awesome sparkly blue nail polish! Wolverine Pride! Unfortunately, this nail polish was not aerodynamic, which explains my long lag behind Mel. At least, that's what I tell myself. When I lie to myself.

And speaking of Googling, in honor of its 10 year anniversary, Google has released its oldest search index. Go see what you would have found had you been Googling back in 2001 here.

Men Everywhere Torn Over Which Man to Vote For

By the Diverged Press

Men everywhere are once again finding themselves in quite the pickle this election season, as they are forced to choose between two male candidates for the Presidency. "This never gets easier;" says Ron Davidson of Columbus, Ohio, "I mean, both of the major candidates are men, and I'm a man, so of course I want to support a man, but I just don't know which one to support." Davidson's confusion is shared by men across the country, as the United States prepares for its 56th consecutive election in which two men have represented the top of the Presidential ticket.

"The ladies sure have it easy this year," says Bill Hampton of Rochester, New York. "Obviously, they are all going to vote for Palin- I mean McCain-Palin, because she's a woman. But no has told me who I will be voting for because I'm a man. And that makes things pretty tough." Men have only about six weeks to decide which man they support, leading some men to begin to panic about their options. "There just hasn't been a lot of coverage about the man-vote this year, and the more I watch the debates and speeches, the more confused I become," said Buster James of Los Angeles, California. "Obama and McCain- they're both men, right? So what am I supposed to do?"

Mr. James' wife, Carol James, admits that while she sees her husband's plight, she can't really empathize. "I guess I just haven't had the same problem this year. I mean, Palin '08. Obviously." Every single other woman in the Nation has had the same reaction. "Palin has my vote," declared Hillary Clinton of New York. "Why wouldn't she? We're both women."

My kind of place

Yesterday, I got out of the new apartment to walk around the streets of Chicago and familiarize myself a little better with the neighborhood. As I was walking down one particular street known for its shopping, I happened across a new store that had just opened that week- and in the window was a beautiful chess set. Since I collect beautiful chess sets, I wandered in and browsed about.

Later, at home:
Me: Patto, there is a new store at Water Tower Place that sells chess sets and handbags.
Patto: Wait- a store that sells nothing but handbags and chess sets?
Me: Yes, that's all they sell. Italian-made handbags and Italian-made chess sets.
Patto: So when you walk in, all you see are purses and chess boards?
Me: Yes.
Patto: Did YOU open this store?

It's a good guess, but no. I did talk to the owner for a while, though, and she seems pretty awesome- just the sort of person who is interested in nothing but handbags and chess sets. I think we could be friends.

I will have to circle this store a few more times and have a paycheck before I purchase anything, but I have already noticed one particular set that might find a place in my home. At least it's something to keep me out of shoe stores for a while. :)

Bar Proscrastination Presents:

Lil'Mama Shocked to Discover American Youth Not Making Rational Decisions

So I'm a closeted (well, not anymore) fan of America's Best Dance Crew. To be honest, I mostly mute the commentators and only watch when one of the teams are actually performing, but I'm constantly impressed at the talent and cool choreo these people come up with, week after week.

Anyway, it's basically American Idol for the slightly cooler, street-wise dance set. It's targeted at teens and has heavy emphasis on who has and has not "come hard" this week. After the show, America votes via text message for their favorite crew, and the two teams receiving the fewest votes are up for elimination, with the panel of three judges making the final call on the next week's show.

Last night, two objectively good teams were up for elimination, and the judges were shocked (SHOCKED!) that it had come to this. "America, are you serious?" chastised Lil'Mama, before adding, "Ya'll need to think about what you're doing with your voting." The other judges agreed, American Youth had failed to make a rational decision via their text messages this week, and now two very talented crews were suffering for it.

I say we're lucky that the outcome of America's Next Dance Crew was the only thing in jeopardy due to the unpredictable nature of teenagers. American teenagers make silly decisions regarding the outcome of reality television because they are teenagers. It's why we don't let them vote.

Because, you know, Adult Americans are known for their rationality and ability to take an objective stance when voting on matters of National importance. I guess something just happens at 18.

Bar Support Continues

I'm on your practice essay, critiquing your writing skills.

Sabatoge

This is Tobey. Laying on my study materials and refusing to move. She also chases my pen and unplugs my laptop when I don't pay her enough attention.

See the quality of support I am getting from home during the Bar process?

Oh, American Gladiators- Nooooo!

I love American Gladiators.
I loved the old version, I love the new version. I'll love the future version, if ever there is one.

I love it love it love it.

I love AG for many reasons, but one of them is because they appeal to my feminist sensibilities. The women's competition is never secondary to the men's competition (I'm looking at you, ESPN). They don't have "Gladiators" and "Female Gladiators," as if default Gladiators are male, and the females are somehow a sub-category that requires modification (I'm looking at you, every sports team in the country that has the "Tigers" and the "Lady Tigers" or the like). The female gladiators are not dressed more sexily than the male gladiators. The female contenders are not given different or easier obstacles than the male contenders. It's good, get-out-there-and-compete entertainment, and I love it.

In addition to male and female, AG has black Gladiators and white Gladiators and asian Gladiators and a Samoan Gladiator, and they are all equally feared and indistinguishably named (Justice, Jet, Titan, Crush, Steel, Rocket, Militia, etc.- who's female? who's black? who cares!)

Yes, it was all well and good in my bubble of AG love, until Panther.

Panther is the first black female Gladiator. And her name is Panther. And I was forced to shake my fist and cry "noooooooooo!," because AG had just played into one of the classic stereotypes of black women, which is to animalize them. Since the dawn of stereotyping, black women have consistently been portrayed as animalistic, particularly as belonging to the cat-family. This is true even today in general interest magazines, despite the attention that has been drawn to it by a multitude of advertising analysts. If females are often regulated to a modified, "other" form of person (besides the default position: male), black females are regulated even further to a non-human category.

Why, AG, WHY?! You were doing so well. Even Patrick sat upright as soon as they introduced Panther and said "wait a minute, Panther? As in, she's black so she's probably an animal Panther?" 100 for Patrick, who remembers the lecture on pornography and its influence on mainstream advertising we attended last year as part of my 3L thesis research.

At the end of the day, I still love American Gladiators. They do so many things right. But I hate to see them slip backwards, even a little. Black women aren't animals. As soon as the Bar is over, I am going to write a pleasantly-worded letter to the producers of AG, letting them know that their latest choice in naming was not a wise one, and hoping that we see more, non-animalistic black female gladiators in the future.

The Evolution of Caesar

Caesar turned 2 years old in May, and in honor of his (belated) birthday, I thought I would do a short photo montage of Caesar in his element: taking up Patto's lap.

I give you my little kitten, all grown up.

September 2006, 4 months old.


Feb 2007, 9 months old


April 2007, almost 1 year old

December 2007, 1.5 years

He hasn't changed much in the last 7 months, but as you can see, he is a far cry from the tiny kitten he was just 2 short years ago. But even though he can no longer fit in my hand, he'll always have ample room in my heart. (Awwwwwwwww!)

Happy Belated Birthday, Cees!

Bar Art

Ken and Tina over at Begging the Question have been publishing their Bar Art for the past few days. What is Bar Art, you ask? It's the result of an odd compulsion to draw out legal theories, usually in stick-man form, in order to vent your feelings of insanity during the Bar studying period.

I have been drawing in my lecture notebook from day one, and now I shall join Ken and Tina and publish my very own masterpiece.

"Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress"
smc, July 2008

To quote my Bar lecturer, "Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress is a tort characterized by extreme or outrageous behavior. What is extreme or outrageous behavior? According to the Restatement, it is behavior so extreme as to make the average, reasonable person exclaim, 'OUTRAGEOUS!'"

Which is an awesome definition in itself.

Now, normally being called a name is not enough to rise to the level of extreme or outrageous conduct. However, for some reason, the law takes insults from common carriers (buses and such) and innkeepers (or hotel folk) very seriously. Apparently, some lawmaker was bullied as a child by future common carriers and innkeepers, and vowed to one day get his revenge. He made good on that threat, too, because the law loves to hate on these people.

Therefore, a single insult by a common carrier or innkeeper to a passenger/patron is enough to rise to the level of extreme and outrageous behavior, and is Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress on our Plaintiff. Poor, poor Plaintiff.

Sue their little bellhop hats off.

Best! Shape! Ever! Update- week 4

It's the beginning of week 4, and not too much has changed, especially since I spent most of last week in Florida and missed 3 work-outs. I'm 146 lbs, and am still 32.5" around the largest part of the tums. But I am seeing some exciting changes in other places. My arms are looking much more toned than they did before, and, ladies and gentlemen, for the first time since high school, I ran three miles.

Well, I jogged three miles at like an 11 min mile pace, but the point is I was able to run three miles without dying. Or walking. Which I haven't been able to do in 7 years. My goal over the next 8 weeks is to get my 3 mile down to 8 minute miles and my 6 mile down to 10 minute miles.

It's fun to see results. It keeps me motivated. By the way, Patto has already taken three inches off of the widest part of his waist. So we are both pumped up and encouraged to keep going, even though there are nights where we can't lift our forks to our mouth at dinner.

I guess that keeps us from going in for dessert.

Va-cay!

Greetings from Tampa!

I have taken a few days off to spend a little time with my gal Mel in Tampa. Don't worry, mom, my bar materials came with me. I got up nice and early this morning and have already put in a solid 2 hours of work.

Me Being Productive. I'm not as happy about it as I look.

It's a little cloudy in Tampa this morning, but hopefully it will clear out into a beautiful, beach-going kind of day. Until then, I sit on the balcony and stare down the Parol Evidence Rule. Sigh.

Still, a vacation is a vacation, and I need one. So I'm off. Enjoy the week.

Best! Shape! Ever!

Yesterday began week three of my attempting to get into the best shape ever; or as I call it to motivate myself away from the chips and toward the carrot sticks, the Best! Shape! Ever!! The extra pep doesn't actually do anything, but given my usual lack of exclamation marks, it seems sad to waste them on a chip-eating kind of day. So I like to tell myself they work, even if they annoy me most of the time.

Anyway. Patto and I are on a tough diet and exercise regimen to become super sexy buffsters. When I say diet, though, I don't mean the type where you don't eat anything. I mean the type where you consume 2,500 calories a day, most of them protein, in order to survive the grueling weight-lifting routine you do 4 days a week. Some days I dread the next meal. Some days I wolf down my little mid-morning turkey sandwich snack like I haven't eaten in days. It all depends on whether my body remembers that I have to lift until my arms fall off that evening or not. For having completed two weeks of this plan already, the body is yet to be consistent. Patto tells me it takes 21 days to form a habit, however, so perhaps the bod will get it together soon (side note: WHO decides it takes 21 days to form (or break) a habit? How do you measure this stuff?)

Anyway, the program we are doing is 12 weeks long. It will take me a little longer than 12 weeks to complete, however, since I am going to spend 5 days in Tampa and 4 days in Chicago over the summer, and won't be able to work out the way we have been during those times. So in about 14 total weeks, expect me to be 150 lbs of twisted steel and sex appeal. Rarr!

To motivate us, Patto and I took those classic "before" pics, where we stuck out our tummies as far as they would go and stood in a frumpy position looking slightly dissatisfied with ourselves, hair pulled back and no make-up, of course, so that at the end of the program we can go get Glamour Shots and compare the results. Seems fair. I would put the pic up, but who wants a before pic floating around on the internet? You'll have to wait for the after.

To keep you abreast of the results (and to keep me motivated to work hard), I'll post my weekly stats.

It all started on Sunday, June 15. I weighed 144 lbs, and the widest part of my tummy (not my waist- under it where those lowest two abs are supposed to be) was 33". To give you some frame of reference, I'm 5'7" and pretty athletically built, besides, again, where those abs are supposed to be. Not fat by any stretch of anyone's imagination (besides, perhaps, those tiny Korean girls db mentions over at Rage in the A.M.), but not as fit as I would like to be.

On Sunday, June 22, I weighed 146 lbs, and the tummy still measured 33".

Yesterday, Sunday, June 29, I weighed 145 lbs, and the tummy was 32.5". Half an inch gone! Yay!

And that's where we are now. I don't really have a weight goal- I just want to be in super fit shape. Based on my frame and where I am now, I am guessing I'll hit around 150. What I really want is to be able to kick ass and take names, and whittle that middle down a few inches. Whatever number that happens at is good with me.

So good luck to those of you out there who are working to get in better shape, too. Use your 21 habit-forming days for good. Patto assures you it will work.

Target Women: Yogurt!

In honor of my sister's poll on yogurt brand loyalty over at Quirky, I give you Target Women: Yogurt edition. If you're a woman, put down that spoon and watch!

For Konrad

I haven't posted in a while, for which I apologize to any loyal readers. Between Graduation, beginning to study for the Bar, and trying to get in better shape, I haven't had a lot of down time. And to be honest, when I did have down time (or made down time because I had quit studying), I felt guilty to be blogging when I should be doing something else. So I watched design shows on HGTV instead.

But recently, I received some bad news about a good friend. On Wednesday, I learned that Konrad Whitt, with whom I attended the University of Tennessee and dated for a short time, died in a hit and run accident in St. Louis, MO, where he had just finished grad school. It was very sudden, and very tragic, and has been very painful for me. Konrad and I still kept in touch, and the last time I spoke to him I mentioned that we were moving to Chicago in a few months, and since St. Louis wasn't that far away, I hoped we could get together some time.

This post is about Konrad, and my memories of him.

Konrad was an RA in Hess Hall, the building I lived in as a freshman at UT. I became a DA in the building, and we would hang out behind the front desk, cutting up and answering the phones. Konrad was endlessly loyal to his friends, even the new ones, like me. The fall of my freshman year, a friend of mine visited me from out of town. Since I lived on a floor with limited visitation, Konrad put him up in an empty room on his floor for the weekend. I didn't even have to ask.

Konrad had one of the most expressive faces I've ever seen on a man. He could tell an entire story with just his eyebrows, with the occasional help of the cock of his head. He was endlessly witty. He also had sharp knees and elbows, which he was not afraid to use in pickup basketball games or in co-opting your place in line. He used to brandish them playfully, as if they were weapons. Trust me, they were.

He drove a red Saturn which he joked was indestructible, thanks to its "high-tech" plexiglass frame. He gave great back massages. He liked the Steve Miller Band and old Tom Petty classics. He once refused to write a major paper for a Psychology class because the Professor had done something to anger him. I'm not sure which one eventually caved, but I know he graduated.

Konrad and I dated in the spring and summer of my freshman year, and when he broke it off at the end of the summer, I was crushed. Thankfully, we bounced right back as friends, and I ultimately knew it was the right decision. Two years later, Konrad and I were joking around one night on IM (he had graduated and moved to Alabama by this time). As I was telling him I needed to go because I had a date, he volunteered that he wouldn't mind picking me up for a date sometime. When I reminded him that he had already done that, he said yes, but that he had been stupid about it the first time, and had learned a lesson. I told him that if things with this Patrick guy didn't work out, he was welcome to move back to Tennessee and have another shot.

Before I wrap this up, one memory of Konrad sticks out particularly in my mind. My sophomore year, when I was an RA in a different building and Konrad had moved off-campus, I was over at his apartment one evening when I was told that a resident of my building had just rather publicly committed suicide in the courtyard. I remember Konrad calmly driving me back to campus, dropping me off into the chaos of flashing lights and terrified residents, and firmly asking if there was anything I needed before he left. At the time, I thought he was being somewhat cold, but I later realized that by his being calm and matter-of-fact, I became calm and matter-of-fact, and was able to organize the madness without giving in to it myself. It was just what I needed at the time, which was his style.

Rest in peace, Konrad, "Gordo." You were a good friend to me and many others. We will miss you.

Graduete!

I know you haven't heard from me in a bit, but that's because I've been busy graduating from law school. See over there? On the right side, where my profile is? It no longer says "a 3L at Harvard law." Being an alum feels good.

But before I can ride off into the Chicago sunset and begin my career at Mobius, I have to study for and pass the Bar exam. So I am spending my summer studying between 4 and 8 hours a day for the exam, which is at the end of July.

I'll get pictures from graduation on here soon, and try to get back into the swing of posting regularly. Pinkie swear.

How many pint-sized pugilists could YOU take on?

26

Created by OnePlusYou - Free Online Dating

Ha! My sister could only take 18 5-year olds in a fight, but that is probably because 1) I have more martial arts training than she does, and 2) I am highly skilled at rolling one five-year old at ten other ones, bowling style. Strike!

Ok, I have no experience rolling children like sports equipment. But I do think I could take a fair number of 'em. I had to take out 6 college-aged men at the same time for my black belt test, so if each college guy with a couple years of martial arts is worth 4-5 kindergarteners, I'm right on track.

How many can you take?

WHY do I need this product?

We are living in a material world, and I am a material girl. Especially when it comes to accessories and hair products. Show me a model with beautiful hair, and I'll show you $7.99 for that conditioner.

So I appreciate good marketing and clever commercials. They are trying to sell me something, and I will play along because, ultimately, I want to buy it. But I have no patience for stupid commercials. Because of your dumb presentation, I will not buy your product out of spite. Or I will snidely comment, "Well, SOME marketing director just lost his job" as your spot fades from my TV.

All that being said, I will not be buying Lysol Deep Reach Toilet Bowl Cleaner. Have you seen its commercial? It has all the standard Lysol bits about how it kills 99% of germs, but instead of focusing on surface germs that could kill your entire family by mere eye-contact, the Deep Reach talks about the germs that lurk deep in your toilet, past the point where you could ever reach with a brush. Deep Reach kills these germs, even as far back as the s-bend.

Cool.

But my problem is, if you cannot reach these germs, even with a brush, then why the #$*^@ do you need to kill them?! Little Tommy cannot reach his hand back to the s-bend. So who cares whether there are germs back there? There are germs under your floorboards, too. Rip up the floors! Disinfect them! No, you cannot possibly be infected by them, but if they're there they must be destroyed! Introducing Lysol UnderFloor Extreme Cleaner! Cleans where even your contractor could not reach! Look for Lysol Behind-the-Drywall Cleaner, coming this summer!

Come on, people. I'm like shooting fish in the barrel. But before I'll help you make a buck off of me, your commercial is going to have to make sense.

Darn Cold

Well, bloggy friends, I am under the weather.

I have developed a cold, and a mighty one at that. I blow my nose about every 8 seconds, and sniffle 15 times in between each blow. I am powered by Tylenol Severe Cold and Head Congestion, which keeps me functioning in 4-hour stints. Last night I dreamed that I was going out with friends, so I tucked an entire roll of toilet paper in my purse for the evening. I kept checking on it to make sure I had enough. Bet I was the life of the party.

At least I am finished with school and haven't started Bar Review yet, so I don't have to be functioning at top level. I can lay on the couch like I have for the past two days and moan. Or make up songs. Right now I am singing:

Oh, I'm a crappy feeling Stephy,
Crappy feeling, yes I am...

I've had the Yankee Doodle song stuck in my head thanks to peanutbutterburrito, who sings her variation of the song to her 4 month-old at changing time. At least I can be sick with a catchy theme song.

So feel free to send your sympathies my way. By the way, I'm going to have to leave the house today for more cold medicine and tissues- so if you live in Cambridge, watch out for a stuffy-headed mess barreling your way. You can't keep your eyes open and sneeze at the same time, even while driving.

The Dating Dirt, Part 1

Finally! The forever-ago promised Dating Dirt is here! This is the first part of the many parts it will take me to tell the whole sordid dating story. I have decided to make the Dating Dirt on Mondays to really start the week off right. Enjoy...

Before middle school, I had never had a real boyfriend. I almost had a boyfriend in first grade, when a kid named Alex Newton asked me to be his girlfriend. I told him I would, but only if he could correctly spell my last name. On the first try. Even as a six year-old, I had high standards. Alex couldn't spell his way out of a paper bag, and coming from me, that's pretty pathetic. Our romance never took off.

Then, in third grade, I considered dating my best friend at the time, Ryan Youngblood. He was seeing a girl named Paige, but one day confessed to me that he loved me more than anyone in the whole world, even Paige. I told him it would never work out; the inevitable break-up would destroy our friendship. He reluctantly agreed, and settled to continue on with Paige, whom he loved second-best in the whole world. Ryan and I stayed close friends until the 5th grade, when we no longer had any classes together.

So imagine me at 13 years old, in 8th grade, with no boyfriend experience. I was in my first professional production at The Opery House in Nashville, TN, playing a near-illiterate mountain girl, whose father was killed in an unfortunate ax accident just a few scenes earlier. Across the stage, my eyes met those of Jason, another local mountain boy. In real life, Jason was 15, tall, and beautiful, with blue eyes and light brown hair. I knew that over the next 3 months (the run of the show), I simply had to make him mine.

Jason had girlfriend experience. He was a sophomore in high school, after all, and the year before had dated a girl whom he claimed had irreparably broken his heart. He was distant on the subject of love, and whenever dating came up among we mountain children in the green room, he would look off into the distance instead of joining in the debate. Even more difficult to break through than his broken heart, however, was his gameboy. Jason would spend almost every moment off-stage on that thing, and it made it hard for me to make noticed appearances here and there. In short, his game was totally ruining mine.

I didn't give up, and eventually Jason returned my flirtations. We took our meals together in the green room, and he would playfully tug at my long and polished braids that I wore for the Second Act. Finally, I decided that the time was right for me to push for a bigger commitment. I casually told him before one show that I would like him to be my boyfriend, and for him to think things over, and if he wanted to, to meet me at the side stage curtains between certain scenes later in the show and tell me so. If he didn't want to, he was not to show up at all, and I would know his answer that way. I promised him it wouldn't hurt our friendship if he didn't show. But we all know that I would never has spoken to him again, not with my crushed 13 year-old pride.

All show I waited near those side-stage curtains, even though "our" scene was not until much later. I didn't want to take the chance of running into him backstage elsewhere and seeing that his answer was no before the appointed time. Then, three scenes before the appointed scene, Jason appeared behind me at the meeting spot. "Hey," he whispered, and I turned from watching the show back to him. "My answer is yes," he said, and then smiled at me. Then he turned and quickly walked away.

And so I had my first-ever boyfriend.

Tune in next week to find out how such a promising beginning turned bad, and fast.

Quick Hits, 5/15/08

1. I know you haven't heard from me in a week. As soon as finals were over I left town and went back to Knoxville, TN to visit my family and friends. I've been so busy catching up I haven't spent a lot of time at the computer to blog. Lo siento.

2. I didn't tell you I was going to Knoxville because I went and surprised my best friend Mel on her 25th birthday in Nashville, TN, just a few hours drive away. It totally worked, as she was super surprised, and we had a great time out and about in Nashville.

3. I drove back to Knoxville last night and slept for 11 hours. This is how much fun we had the day before.

4. I'll be back in Boston on Friday, so look for regular posts again then. Until we meet again, happy week after finals! And happy week of whatever is going on in your life! And happy birthday to Mel!

The Countdown Continues, Part 6

2.25 days.
0 pages.

Stop the Countdown. Estoy acabado.

Fin.

The Countdown Continues, Part 5

3 days.
8 pages.

I'm going to finish this today.

Is today the last day I'll sit in this library as a student?
It's looking that way.
What an odd feeling.

The Countdown Continues, Part 4

Today was a great day for writing. I got up early, hit the library, and was churning out pages like there was no tomorrow. The afternoon was considerably slower, but overall, great output on the day.

I am closing in on it. I am cautiously optimistic. Some papers continue to grow longer despite my best efforts to just. stop. writing., so my countdown may yet be off, but as best I can calculate it I have:

4 days
to write 16 pages.

But as you know, I am trying to go faster than that so I am not typing down to the wire. I had planned to finish up everything on Thursday, but now I hear that my pal Simon (yes, of the Vodka and Tupperware) is leaving town on Thursday for the summer, and wants to hang out Wednesday night. Since I won't see Simon until August in Chicago, I want to go and send him off in style. Can I essentially finish all of my writing by Wednesday evening? I can if I work tomorrow and Wed like I have today.

To make things worse (or better, depending on how you look at "things,") Wed is supposed to be a glorious return to Spring. After a week and a half of gloom, there will almost certainly be an afternoon volleyball game to play. Sooo tempting, especially now that I feel I am a little bit ahead. I think this is my plan: If I have another fabulous writing day tomorrow like I had today, then I will be in pretty darn good shape come Wednesday. And if I hit the library on Wed at the crack of dawn like I did today and plan to do tomorrow, and if by noon Wed I have less than 3 total pages to finish, then I shall allow myself to wander out looking for a game. Then I will finish up the three remaining pages in the afternoon, and go out and celebrate with Simon that evening.

That's a lot of ifs. But all it will take is another two great days of writing. Finish line, here I come!

Friends in High Places

This is my best friend from college, Amanda, on the cover of MM&D, the Canadian trade magazine for supply chain management and distribution. Amanda graduated at the top of her class from Tennessee in Logistics and Transportation, which is consistently ranked as one of the best L&T departments in the country. Actually, the department is now called Marketing and Logistics, but it is consistently ranked the best of those, too.

Since University, Amanda has been zipping up the corporate ladder, winning friends and trouncing enemies with her stunning competence and ability to manage a team with nothing but the spring from an ink pen and a buttermilk biscuit. She is the MacGyver of supply chain engineering, and here she is, on the cover of MM&D being honored for her implementation of a brilliant new warehousing scheme. And all just a few days shy of her 26th birthday.

Rock on with your bad self, Amanda!

Spring Left. Mope.

Apparently, I spoke too soon. Spring has not descended on the GWN. It just wanted to pop in for a week and tease us. "See you in June, suckers!"

It has been in the 40s and raining almost every day here for a week. At first I thought the rainy days were helping me do more writing, because I wasn't tempted to go outside to see if a sand volleyball game had formed at school. Now I'm just depressed. Mope Mope Mope. Rainy Saturday. Maybe I should go eat a cupcake.

The Countdown Continues, Part 3

Some papers have ended up longer than I had expected, so it looks like I am being less productive than I really am. I would like to amend the first countdown post to say that I had 19 days to write 92 pages, instead of 82. But as far as I can tell, the Countdown stands at:

8 days
to write 31 pages

Or about 4 pages per day. Of course, I am trying to write more like 6 pages per day, so that I can finish a couple of days early and review everything before I turn it in. One more week to go.

It's Not Just a Cupcake

It's emotional eating!

The latest Duncan Hines commercial shows a mom making cupcakes, while the emotion-laded voiceover says, "It's just a rainy day. It's just a scraped knee. It's just hair, it will grow back. But sometimes it's the little things that ruin your day." Pan over to a mopey-looking five-year old, who watches the oven with anticipation. Boy, he is sure is a sad sack. Luckily, eating cupcakes improves your day! If something bad happens, eat a cupcake! Food never rains on your Saturday! Food never trips you on the sidewalk! Food never gives you a lopsided haircut! Food loves you, no matter what!

Duncan Hines. It's not just a cupcake. It's physically and emotionally filling.

The Countdown Continues, pt 2

Today is not a productive day. I'm not panicking, because I have been very productive lately, but I can already tell that things are just not gelling like they have on other days. I have my last law school Improv show tonight, so tonight will be lost, too. I think I'm just going to call today a wash and not worry about it. Today I'll catch up on some home design shows. Tomorrow I will be back on track.

The Countdown stands at:
62 pages
in 14 days.

The Countdown Continues

Productive day yesterday. Kudos a moi.

We stand at:
66 pages
in 16 days.

Someone asked why it takes so much effort to bang out only 7 or 8 pages a day. Trust me, it just does. It's not like I'm writing fiction, I can't just make this stuff up. Well, not much of it anyway.

The material is dense, and my will is weak. Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes to write one good sentence. On top of that, classes are still in session through the end of this week, so I can't just spend all of my time writing- I still have to read for and attend classes, go to graduation meetings, go to improv rehearsal, put on an improv show, and spend time with my Patto.

Next week we will see how much more I am able to get done without all those pesky classes and meetings getting in my way.

And the week after that I will write "Do Not Disturb" on my forehead and become a hermit until this is just finished.

Quick Hits: 4/23/08

1. It is supposed to reach 80 degrees today. Whoo-hooo! Just as I was coming down off my high that Spring had finally arrived in the Great White North (it was hitting about 62 degrees every day for the past week and a half), we have this little nugget of joy! Horay! Makes getting up early and sitting outside while I write feverishly a little more enjoyable. Too bad I have to eventually go inside for class and a power source...

2. Elizabeth Warren, brilliant HLS professor, bankruptcy guru and Goddess of the Socratic Method wears a backpack to school, just like me. I just saw her walk by in her suit and her little north face pack. We bonded. Well, I bonded. But she was there, too.

3. Speaking of my backpack, after almost three faithful years of service, the front zipper to the pencil case area of it completely ripped off. I'm not purchasing a new backpack, so I safety-pinned the pocket closed with 8 jumbo pins. Now I look all grunge and stuff. I think it gives me a much needed "edge" around the pool table. I might even put one through my lip like the kids did back in high school. Ok, I would never do that.

4. The Countdown stands at:
75 pages
in 16.5 days

Hark Etiquette

I'm about to graduate, and I would like to pass along some rules of proper Hark Etiquette. This is for the benefit of both the newbies and the blatant offenders who are starting to really annoy me as I spend more and more time studying there. Not to wax on about the good old days, but these Hark violations simply did not occur when I was a 1L. People had respect for each other in the Hark. It's this darn New Class. They are miscreants.

But I digress.

The Rules of Hark Etiquette:

1. If you have more friends to seat at your table than chairs, the proper action is to a) take a chair from an unoccupied table or b) ask a person sitting at a table with an empty chair if you may take it. It is rude to just take a chair from a person's table without asking. And never, EVER take a chair away from a table if a person has "claimed" it but is away from the table temporarily. This kind of chair poaching is rude, sneaky and simply unacceptable.

2. Sometimes during lunch, the Hark is so swamped that every table is occupied. In this case, it is acceptable to approach a table where a person is sitting alone and ask to sit at the table with them while you eat. If they accept, sit and eat. If they are studying (as is usually the case if they are alone at a table during lunch), do NOT try to strike up a conversation. They are sitting alone because they want to work. Be thankful you got a chair and let them work. If possible, eat very quickly and then leave. NEVER invite a friend to sit with you and talk. Remember that you are a guest at this person's table and act accordingly.

3. If a person is eating or studying at a long skinny table in the Hark, it is acceptable to join them at the table and eat or work without first asking their permission. But you must either leave a chair between you or sit at their diagonal. Do not sit right next to them or directly across from them. This invades their space. Remember, they were there first. Do not invite a friend to sit and chat with you at the same table, unless you are at one end of the table and they are at the other. And they are wearing headphones.

4. Do not pull a chair into the path of the pool table if I am playing. Not if you want to keep your fingers, that is. But I digress again.

5. When a long line has formed at the hot lunch station, and you cannot see what the option is from the back of the line, the proper action is to walk up beside the line, and standing at least as far back as the next person in line and no closer than necessary to barely be able to make out the option, lean forward awkwardly to see what is for lunch. Do not walk up close enough that you can just examine the lunch without leaning forward, because people will think you are trying to skip the line. Leaning awkwardly says, "I respect that there is a line and I am not in it. I'm just trying to see the options, and then I will retreat, as evidenced by my awkward forward lean."

These rules will help you win friends and influence enemies in the Hark. And keep you from bearing the wrath of a 3L who has a million pages to write and 2.5 weeks to do it in. Because trust me, she's had it up to here with your shenanigans. And she's about to snap.

(It's the) Final Countdown

Follow along at home, non-super-stressed-out readers!

smc has 19 days
to write 82 pages
spanning 9 topics

Oh 3L, where art thou?

Hi friends,

I know some of you have been wondering where I am and why I haven't been posting as often.

Finals.

As in, the Final Finals. Probably the last set of Finals I will ever have. Ever. So they're kinda a big deal right now. I have a TON of work to do and exactly 20 days in which to do it. How much is a ton? Along the lines of 90 double-spaced pages to write.

So that's where I am. Buried under a ton of papers. See you in May!

The Billiards Bitch

Today I decided to pick up a billiards cue again for the first time in almost a year. I love playing pool. I spent most of my college career playing pool. But law school eats your life, even as a 3L, and I was sorely out of practice. No matter, I was back now. Reunited and it feels so good! I popped in my headphones and got to work.

The billiards table at HLS is upstairs in the Hark, in the same room as a large TV and several groupings of comfy chairs. A couple of guys were sitting close to the table, so I made a mental note to not hit them with the cue, and pushed away the few remaining chairs that might get in my way. And so began my painful struggle to get back on top of my game. I was grumpy about my faded skills. But besides having to squeeze around the two close-sitting guys and occasionally sacrificing shots because to make them I would have to run the cue up their noses, things were generally okay for the first game. When I had to go for a ridiculous shot (or skip one altogether) because the guys were in my way, I reminded myself that they were there first. The game ended and one of the guys left. I went over and pushed his chair away from the table so it would no longer be in the way, and began game 2.

And this is where the trouble really began.

First, as I was playing, a guy walked over with his approximately one year-old son. He held him up to the edge of the table so the baby could see the game. This would be fine, except that he had placed the child right over the pocket I was aiming at, while I was aiming at it. Not only was he and his son staring directly at me, but the little boy kept reaching down towards the pocket. I'm not sure if he could have reached in, but I was really worried I was going to crush his little fingers if I made the shot. I looked up at the father. He smiled pleasantly and jiggled the boy. I couldn't concentrate on the shot at all, as I had a thousand thoughts now swirling through my head. What if the ball popped out of the pocket and hit the baby? What if it crushed his fingers? Why was this guy standing over my shot, anyway? Should I go for the 10 after all? How long is he going to stand there? Am I cutting this too hard?

So I stood up, and changed my shot to go for the side pocket instead. AND THE DAD SLID DOWN SO HE COULD BE LINED UP WITH THIS SHOT, TOO! I decided to just go for it, swirling thoughts and all, and of course, missed terribly. I walked around the table for my next shot, and was standing right next to the dad. I gestured to the shot I wanted, indicating he was in my way. He smiled again and slid over about 6 inches, so that for me to get lined up properly, I would still be standing right on top of him and the baby (whose fingers were covered with ick, I now noticed). I took my shot from where I was, again, missing terribly. I guess I don't thrive under the baby pressure, because I didn't make a shot until he walked away. Then I sunk the next five.

But the trouble didn't end there. Soon after the baby-daddy left, a woman walked over and pulled one of the chairs that I had pushed away over to the table. She set it with her back to the pool table, about 4 feet away. I didn't see her do it since I was looking down at my shot at the time, but sure enough, the next shot would have me lining up right through her. I walked over and stood next to her chair, and held my cue at a high angle so as not to jab her in the back of the head. She jumped up anyway, pushing the chair into me. I turned and looked at her blankly. She stared back with pursed lips, and I decided, no matter how rude it might appear, not to apologize for standing on top of her to play my game. I was there first. She pulled the chair into my path. I hadn't actually hit her, she hit me when she pushed out of her chair. We stood there face to face for a few long seconds. Seeing I was not going to apologize, she huffily picked her things up out of the chair and moved to another one, farther away. I pushed her chair away again and continued playing. But now I felt guilty, and my head got more clouded. Should I have apologized to the lady? Asked her to move before I took the shot? And what was up with that dad? Am I the Billiards Bitch of the Hark?

In the middle of my third game, the guy who had been sitting so close to the table all this time finally got up and walked away. I quickly pushed away his chair and went back to my game. A couple of minutes later, he was back. And staring at his moved chair. And me. Apparently, he had just left for a snack, and had not actually left-left, as I thought. He glared at me and nudged his chair a bit. I took out an earbud. "Sorry, I thought you had left." "No, I just went to get something." "Oh." And then he pushed his chair all the way back to where it originally was, right beside the table.

Ok. Now I am annoyed.

He knows the chair is in my way, he's been watching me play for the last half hour and having to squeeze past him. And it's not like I pushed his chair against a wall or something, I just moved it four more feet away in a giant open room. Could he not sit there and eat his snack? What was it about being three feet from the table that was so important to him? He cannot claim settler's rights anymore, he had gotten up and not left any item to indicate he was returning. The chair was fair game. He had taken his hand off the chess piece, and it was my move. With jaw set, I finished my game, less considerate of his space this time around.

Who knew that getting back into a game I enjoy so much would annoy me so thoroughly? Seems the forces-that-be were conspiring against me today. Perhaps I can squeeze in a game or two tomorrow with better results. Until then, I have decided I don't mind being thought of as the Billiards Bitch. You can't claim surprise when you sit next to a billiards table, so stay out of my way. At least until I've improved my rusty game a bit!

This makes me happy

I loved this so much when I found it at Ken's that I simply had to have it. And now I do!

Special thanks to el seeeester for helping me out with the difficulty getting this to show up on zee blog.

Five Things Meme

I was tagged by my sis to do this one a while ago, but I'm just now getting to it. But here we go!

The Rules
1. Each player answers the questions about themselves with five things.
2. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves a comment letting them know they've been tagged and to ask them to play along and to read your blog.

Five things I was doing 10 years ago- 1998:
1. I was about to finish my freshman year of high school.
2. I had locked down a lifetime friendship with Melanie.
3. I was just cut from the Varsity Cheerleading Squad.
4. I was 4'11" and weighed 85 lbs, and prayed every night that I would get taller.
5. I was not dating the boy I had a crush on, or anyone else, for that matter.

Five things on my To-Do list for today:
1. Write 4 pages on a paper
2. Meet Irish for coffee to discuss Parody
3. Go to a Drama Society meeting
4. Send a thank-you note
5. Email Mel and Amanda

Five Snacks I enjoy:
1. Chips and Dip
2. Brownies
3. Mott's applesauce
4. Grapes
5. Cheese Sticks

Five things I would do if I were a Billionaire:
1. Pay off my law school loans
2. Buy an amazing home. And a summer home. And a winter home.
3. Pay off my family's mortgages or any other debt they had.
4. Get a daily massage
5. Travel the world. In First Class.

Five of my bad habits:
1. Biting my nails
2. Gossiping
3. Rolling my eyes
4. Skipping Church
5. Procrastinating

Five Places I have lived:
1. Savannah, Georgia
2. Smyrna, Tennessee
3. Knoxville, Tennessee
4. Somerville (Boston), Massachusetts
5. Chicago, Illinois

Five Jobs I've had:
1. Youth-league Soccer referee
2. Waitress at O'Charley's
3. Resident Assistant
4. Summer Associate Attorney
5. Collections agent for a mortgage company

Five Bloggers I am tagging:
Eh, I'm skipping this one because my sis and Mel already tagged all the blogs I read- or at least the ones that would take my tagging them seriously. So instead, I'll give you a make-up Fiver or two.

Five things I'm good at:
1. Exercising regularly
2. Swimming
3. Accessorizing
4. Managing
5. Keeping a good attitude

Five things I'm really bad at:
1. Basketball
2. Spelling
3. Long-distance Running
4. Whispering
5. Paying attention in class

Okay! There you have it. Let me know if you do one, too, and I'll check it out.

Soap Opera, smc style?

When my sister tagged me for the Dating Meme and mentioned that I changed boyfriends more than some people changed clothes and thus I had a lot of good stories, I realized she was right. I DO have a lot of good, juicy stories from my dating past. So I been thinking about having a weekly flashback on my dating life, much like Kate does over at walkingkateastrophe.com with her "Soap Opera Sunday." SOS is amazing, by the way. I suggest you read up.

Anyway, I'm trying to think of what to call it and what day to do it on. I'm thinking Wed. Juicy tales of dating ups and downs to get you past hump day. But what to call it? I will think on it, but if you have any suggestions, please leave them in the comments. And keep an eye out for Wednesday.

The Lock-out

Today I locked myself out of the house.

I always keep the handle of the front door locked, and usually when I step out to get the mail I just leave the door open a crack and pick the mail up off of the front porch. Then it's back inside to watch my new Netflix! But today I stepped out to get the mail and the wind blew the front door closed behind me and locked the door. So there I stood at 3pm, outside my front door, locked out of the house.

Patrick had already told me that he was working late tonight and would not be home for 4 hours at the earliest. If I was going to get into that house, I was going to have to break in.

I had the following knowledge: All of the windows and doors were closed and locked. Only the handle of the front door was locked (not the dead bolt). The people who own my apartment were not home, and I didn't have my cell phone on me. I had the following tools at my disposal: A pen. A student ID. A Netflix DVD. An Aerosoles catalog. The mailbox key.

I tried wiggling my student ID in there, to no avail. I ripped the clip off of the pen and tried to pick the lock. Then I thought of another method that might work and scrounged through the trash (yes, the trash) to find what I needed. After finding something that might work, I struggled for about half an hour outside my front door. The good news is that I finally did indeed break in. The better news is that it was a LOT harder than I thought.

And no, I'm not going to tell you how I finally did it. But I will tell you that I shouted YES! loud enough for it to echo down the street when that lock popped open. And sent the cats who were listening on the other side of the door scrambling back down the hallway in fear. But I don't care! Because I broke into my own house! All by myself, on my own good idea! YES!

And if law doesn't work out I'm TOTALLY considering a life of crime.

The Other Way to Mark the Seasons

While cleaning out my work bag the other day, I came across a tube of lipstick that I had forgotten I had tucked into it months ago.

Me: Hey! I found some lipstick in my work bag. I always liked this lipstick!
Patto: That's nice, dear.

Later, as we are going out to dinner:

Patto: Are you going to wear your new lipstick?
Me: What new lipstick?
Patto: The lipstick you found in your bag today.
Me: Oh, no. That's a fall lipstick.
Patto: A fall lipstick?
Me: Yeah.
Patto: What does that mean?
Me: It's for fall.
Patto: Fall?
Me: Yeah. Fall. It's the wrong season lipstick.
Patto: Lipsticks have seasons?
--Pause while we just stare at each other in confusion.--
Both: Never mind.

Silly Patto. Doesn't he know it could set us back WEEKS in my attempt to force Spring upon Boston if I put on fall lipstick? It's like giving up the high ground! Is he MAD?!?!

Boys. No strategy.

Hooray!

I finally get to graduate from the Law School! My third batch of announcements arrived today, and they are both beautiful and correct. I am promoting slightly-less-fair-than-Theresa Customer Service Rep Sarah to just-as-fair-as-Theresa Customer Service Rep Sarah.

Here's to you, just-as-fair-as-Theresa Customer Service Rep Sarah! Keep up your stunning competence! And try not to sound so annoyed on the phone!

Twins!

We have new arrivals in the smc household. Behold!



Adorable red leather and suede heeled loafers with shoe-lace detail, by Franco Sarto. Tres Adorable! And since they are fall/winter shoes, I got them on clearance for 40% off.

My shoe collection is not quite back at balance since the loss of my "go-with-everything" black pumps, but these make a great addition on their own. Besides, it's better this way; you don't want to raise a pair of shoes to feel like they have to make up for an earlier loss. It's too much pressure.

ANOTHER joint degree? For me?

I couldn't make this stuff up.

My new graduation announcements arrived today. The Harvard Law School seal on the front looked promising, but no. The inside STILL says I am graduating from the business school. I called customer service (I'm thinking of adding them to my speed dial) and this time talked to the slightly-less-fair-than-Theresa Customer Service rep, Sarah. Sarah sounded annoyed that the re-order hadn't worked. Tell me about it, Sarah. You're not the one with 50 useless announcements and only 2 months until graduation (good thing I ordered them obscenely early).

There must be something I can do with these beautiful, but wrong, announcements. Perhaps I can cut out their embossed seals and use them for scrap-booking (I'll save you some, Mel, in case a page on my graduation makes it into your 2008 book). Maybe I'll turn them into confetti to toss around at the graduation bbq. Maybe I'll sew them into a charming little hat. A beret, perhaps?

Anyway, your suggestions are welcome. The paper isn't thick enough for custom, uber-preppy pogs, but I'm willing to try anything once.

You need UTI

Okay, quick hit: I just saw a technical training program commercial and I am laughing my head off. So I must share.

The spot opens with cars dashing around and a "tough-guy" voice-over:
"Are you thinking, 'New Year, New Career?' Then you need UTI."

That's as far as I got before I fell over. Because every gal knows what a UTI is, and we know that you do NOT, in fact, need one. Especially if you are starting a new career that day.

Back to your regularly scheduled program.

------
*UTI apparently ALSO means Universal Technical Institute. I'm willing to bet there isn't a woman on their board of overseers.

Willing it to be Spring

It's Spring Break time at Harvard, but it doesn't feel like Spring to me. Today the high is 40, and it's supposed to snow tomorrow. No matter, I am willing it to be Spring, and I am convinced that it will miraculously hit 60 degrees this week if I just want it hard enough.

In an attempt to make it Spring, I went out and got a Spring-y haircut yesterday. No drastic changes, I just had the lady add some long, side-swept pieces to the front and take some weight out of the ends (this is done by a special pair of scissors that apparently only cut every third hair or something. Hair-cutting black magic). Anyway, my hair is in a ponytail today because I have spent the morning making breakfast and writing a paper, but as soon as I get put together (maybe even later today!) I will snap a picture for you.

For those of you without any sense of delayed gratification, it looks about like this (the first picture on the page, modeled by Rachel Stevens). My hair is a little thicker and longer than hers, but that gives you an idea of those front pieces.

Anyway, I really like the cut, especially since it comes with its own soundtrack. I stepped out onto the sidewalk after leaving the salon, and strutted myself all the way back to my car with Justin Timberlake's "Damn, Girl" playing in my head. Of course it's vain, but I'm willing to do that in order to single-handedly turn the season from winter to Spring. You can thank me later.

"You got me thinkin', Daaaaaaaaamn, Girl! You're so fiiiiiiinnne...."

The Dating Meme

I was tagged by my sis for this meme, so I thought I'd be a good sport and get to work on it.

1. What is one life lesson you've learned while dating?
Never settle. You deserve to be with someone who makes you deliriously happy. Don't settle for second-best. You will know the right person for you when you find them. Don't try to fit a square peg into a round hole. Or a second-rate boyfriend into a great gal's life.

2. What was your best date ever?
This is a tough one, because my favorite memories are not ones where I was on any formal date. One day a couple of years ago, Patrick and I went out to a park on a sunny afternoon, right at the end of summer, and laid on a blanket and read for a few hours. Kids were flying kites around us, and I had such a serene feeling. Certain sunny days still remind me of going to that park and just hanging out together.

3. Worst date ever?
It was my second date with a seemingly really nice guy from one of my psychology classes in undergrad. He was clean-cut, polite, funny, and a neo-Nazi. For reals. He used those words. When I asked him what he meant, he said "Well, I don't go around killing people, but I think Anglo-Europeans are genetically superior to every other race of people. Is that a problem?"
Check, please.

4. What is the longest you've ever dated someone?
I dated Patto for just over two years before I married him, if being engaged counts as dating. As for the longest I've dated anyone without later marrying him, the winner is one year and 8 months.

5. Breaking up is hard to do... what was your hardest break-up?
Breaking up with my first love. It was like wrenching my own heart out. We had several relapses over the next couple of months- I had the worst time breaking it off completely (I wish I could quit you!) even though I had good reasons to. I still hate how I handled it. We really did a number on each other.

6. Are you friends with anyone you've ever dated?
Yep. One of the guys I dated when I was 16 and I are still good friends. We sent each other Happy Easter text messages just yesterday. He just got married last fall to a girl I really like, proof that I don't destroy every guy I date. :) Before I moved to Boston, I also kept up with two other guys I had dated, but I haven't talked to either of them since we moved.

That's it! Let's hear about your dating history. Leave a comment if you're going to do one yourself, and I'll pop over and read it.

A joint degree? For me?

My graduation announcements arrived today, and they are beautiful. The Harvard seal is so crisp and bright. The textured ecru paper says I paid over a hundred grand for this degree. The text says I'm graduating from the Business school with a Juris Doctor degree...

That's right. My beautiful announcements are all wrong wrong wrong. The card enclosed with my lovely announcements directed me to a customer care website that would allow me to correct my order in just a few clicks. Except I needed more than a few clicks, because the website would only allow me to choose between graduating from the Business school and the Divinity school. (???) It suggested I call customer service if I was having difficulty, and offered me what turned out to be a wrong number.

After I searched el internet at large for the correct number, I called the real customer service and after listening to a billion options (because their menu has changed) I was directed to the customer care website and promptly hung up on.

So I called back. And punched zero as soon as I heard the automated message, because I knew their menu had not changed in the 30 intervening seconds between when I was last hung up on (snooty machine) and my second call. Luckily, I got the fair Theresa on the phone, who was polite and helpful and sorry for my inconvenience. She had the same troubles with the whole Business school/Divinity school option, but in the end assured me that I would get to graduate from the Law School by the time this was all said and done.

So, in 5-6 business days I hope to gave once more of beautiful graduation announcements. As for my almost joint degree, it was fun while it lasted.

Feel the burn

After the Parody ended, I looked down at my tummy (which was happily eating a fudge sundae) and realized that I hadn't been to the gym in a month. Giving the ol' tums an affectionate pat, I vowed to get right back into fighting shape starting the very next day.

Oddly, I made good on my promise, and NOW I CAN'T WALK BECAUSE I AM SO SORE. I went back to the gym last Wednesday and Thurs, and then again this Monday, Thurs and today. I've been pushing really hard (formal event in two weeks) and while I swear I can already see improvement, it might only be because my stomach sucks itself in every time I glance in the mirror so it can trick me into giving it a break from the grueling workouts. Nice try, tums, but I'm on to your game. Two-a-days!

Anyway, if you see me walking very slowly around campus, or being that kid in class who holds up one arm with the other, please know that it is not because I am an insufferable gunner, but because if I don't hold up my arm it will not hold up itself, and I HAVE to ask this question or I will have missed the entire point of the lecture and will fail the class. And then Mobius will not want me. And I will have to live in a van down by the river. All because the Parody ate my life and prevented me from working out for a month.

Now excuse me, I have to save the energy it takes to type for the papers I have been putting off.

You are good knees

Yesterday, the woman who usually teaches my Monday afternoon exercise class became ill, and the only person they could find to cover her class on short notice was a yoga instructor, who knows almost nothing about muscle conditioning. But she does know yoga, and so we did yoga.

This was my first yoga class, and immediately I jumped three spots on my skepto-meter. You remember those "how are you feeling today" fridge magnets that had the 20-odd faces you could choose from to display your mood? Yeah, move me to "cynical." My eyes sure did get stretched with all the rolling they did over "growing up like a flower" and "giving greetings to your inner sun." But right in the middle, she said something which resonated with me. During one difficult stretch, she said "if you cannot hold this stretch, do not be angry at your body. Your body is a good body. It supports you. Do not be ungrateful for it."

Lately, I have been ungrateful to my body, specifically my knees. They ache all the time, they pop and crack, they make me feel like an old person. But I should speak kindly to my knees. After all, they are only weak and aching because I pushed them too hard at an earlier point in my life. And they are still holding me up. And not only that, but they allow me to work-out hard, even if they might complain a bit about it the next couple of days.

Go speak nicely to and about your body. It is a temple. And it is holding you up.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

May your glass be ever full
May your roof stay strong over your head
May you be in Heaven half an hour
before the Devil knows you're dead.

One step forward, two steps back

This is a story about Vodka and Tupperware. And my friend Simon.

Patto and I like to host parties. We have a lot of space, and we like having people over, so our apartment is the natural gathering place. Last December, Patto and I hosted New Year's at our place. My friends Simon came, and brought with him a handle of the most horrible, cheap vodka I have ever tasted. Needless to say, it wasn't a big hit at the party, and when Patto and I cleaned up the next day, we found an almost full bottle. We tucked it into the freezer and said we would bring it to the next party we came across.

Two months later, we were at a large house party of more law school friends, and we placed the vodka on the counter with the other liquors. At the end of the night, we slipped away sans Vodka. High five!

Another month passes, and we are at a party at Simon's. On the table is the dreaded Vodka. The fruitcake of Vodkas. We laugh to ourselves. Simon's going to get stuck with this Vodka again! And it's still half full! Pass me the rum! Ah ha ha ha!

Until we threw a party at the end of April. And welcomed Simon through the door with that cursed bottle of Vodka. Just like the cat, the Vodka came back the very next party. With Simon. Determined that this vodka would not curse us for another party, we filled 8 shot glasses with the offending stuff and forced it upon the next 8 people we saw. Finally. Vodka finished. I haven't been so happy to throw away an empty bottle of alcohol in years.

---------

It happened much the same way with some Tupperware. Last year, about this time, Simon brought brownies in a Tupperware container to a party at my house. And left it there. Over the course of the following year, we tried to give it back multiple times (some times at those parties with the evil vodka), but he always ended up leaving it in my car or at my house. Some times I forgot to bring it when I promised I would. It took a year, but finally, last Friday night, I returned the Tupperware and put it into his sink myself. And left it there.

Later that night we threw a party at my house. The next morning I found left-over cupcakes. Cupcakes housed in not one, but TWO of Simon's Tupperware containers.

I'm just going to keep them.

Have a good "day"

When I was an RA in college, the secretary of my dorm, Mary, was the sweetest elderly woman ever put upon the earth. She had not been raised in the era of computers, but since she had one at work, she loved it. She would type up every single message, no matter how short, and print it out for us. The best part about her notes, however, was her manner of emphasizing certain words with no discernible pattern. Mary liked to underline or bold or put in quotation marks random words, and it was the daily game of the RAs to read aloud her notes and collapse in the floor in laughter at their altered meanings.

For example, one day this note was put up next to the RA mailboxes:
I put brownies in the kitchen -- "enjoy"

Of course, our immediate response was to assume the brownies were poisoned or laced with chocolate laxatives. What else could be the meaning behind the ominous "enjoy"?

Another day, we saw:
RAs, many pedestrians don't LOOK before crossing the street in front of the staff lot. Please be "careful" when driving out.

Is it just me, or was she subtly asking us to run down the pedestrians so they wouldn't just walk in front of her car without LOOKing anymore?

Anyway, the reason I bring this up (besides the fact that it makes me laugh when I look back on it) is because I now have a professor who loves to put quotation marks around random words, just like Mary did. At first I thought he was just putting quotes around terms of art (like "reasonable care", which is a legal standard), but now I think he suffers from the same quotes-happy disease Mary did. Take, for example, this last email he sent my small group after we submitted our weekly assignment:

"This is terrific work, Group. You should be very proud of the time and effort so clearly displayed in this Assignment which "tops," I think, any prior Week's Assignment. Congrats on a job very well done indeed. You have grappled with the "core issues," in a way which fairly replicates the "real world" negotiation on which the Hypo is based. In other words, you are ready to be "welcomed into the legal dept." to prepare First Draft Agreements!

Congrats on "making the grade," and challenging each other to "raise the bar" each week.

I look forward to seeing you in Class tomorrow."

As soon as I read that I thought of Mary and the brownies we should "enjoy" and started laughing all over again. I sure do "miss" her.


-----------
Now, I am leaving this prof. unnamed on purpose, so even if you know who it is, don't go spouting off about it in the comments. I don't want people to google his name and find this post and think I am making fun of him. I am making fun of him, of course, but I don't want people to think that.

Shoes of Blessed Memory

It's a sad day in the smc household. Well, not so much in the household as in my head. It's a sad day in my head. It's time to throw out one of my best pairs of shoes. They weren't the most stylish or my favorite pair, but they were practical and reliable. They went with everything. They were comfortable. Their name was "Transpose," and I will miss them.

Since I love me some shoes, the only fitting thing to do is write a brief obituary in honor of the recently trashed.

March 11, 2008
Transpose and her life-long mate passed away this Tuesday at 5:34pm at their Massachusetts home. They were 4 years old. The Tranposes were of black leather, rounded toe, ankle strap, and were three inches high. They had an extra-cushioned sole for added comfort. They are survived by the Spring Aerosoles catalogue, their 31 closest friends, and caretaker smc. Please send donations to the smc shoe-fund in lieu of flowers.

Director Drinking Game

Now that we are on the home stretch of Parody showings, I think the cast has gotten pretty used to my habits and quirks as Director. I also notice that they just love the post-show parties (the wilder the better). So I propose to combine the two with a new parody game: the Director Drinking Game!

Before warm-ups and pre-show announcements, grab your favorite beverage and get ready!
Take one drink for every time the Director says "heads up"
Take one drink for every time she says "come on, guys"
Take one drink for every time she mentions the importance of being on time
Take one drink for every time she says "Don't ad lib lines!"
Take one drink for every time she threatens bodily harm against her Assistant Director
Take two drinks if it was because he ad libbed his lines
Take one drink every time she invokes the "safe list"
Take one drink for every time she kicks Ken off the safe list
Take two drinks for every time she takes him back
Take two drinks for every time she helps Tina win the party

You can add your own triggers if you think of something else to add to the list, but this should get you started. It should also make the pre-show stuff a little more interesting. Enjoy!

Abused? Or just dancing in the Parody?

Recently, I switched places in a dance with another gal from the Parody who was having trouble with one particular lift. I learned her part of the dance, and now I see why she wanted out.

The dance is a waltz, with some cheerful lifts and jumps thrown in for good measure. The lift she was having trouble with involves the male partner effectively picking up the female partner by the ribs. And her partner (now my partner) squeezes hard! I am always having to tell Patto not to hug too hard lest he snap my wee ribs, so maybe I'm just sensitive to it. At any rate, I think I have partner-prints on my ribs. If they found my body today, they would probably think I was abused. In fact, I'm just in the Parody (You remember last year).

I've warned the partner once to be careful, but he tends to squeeze harder when he gets excited. It's ok, though- there is a pressure point between your shoulder and your neck, about where your hand would rest if you happen to be a woman waltzing with a man. The next time he crushes me on the lift, I'll drop him to his knees on the waltz.

Betcha that'll jog his memory for the next night.

The Parody Cometh!

Tomorrow is opening night of the 2008 Harvard Law School Parody, "Harry Issue Spotter and the Goblet of Breyer." As you know, I am the Director, and I am thrilled with how things are turning out. My profile picture on Facebook is of me giving notes to the cast last night after a dress rehearsal. I was down to just one and a half pages of notes. Huzzah!

The show has really come together, and I'm so excited for it to go up that I almost can't sit still. It's terrifically funny, and I would know. I have read the script and blocked the scenes and watched the actors practice it and taken it apart and put it back together so many times that with any other script it would sound like a recipe for bean soup, but this script still makes me laugh. 2 months later of reading it every night, and it still makes me laugh. I predict it will knock the audience on its collective keister.

Today we members of the cast are wearing the Parody T-shirt and sporting scars on our foreheads to promote the show. Here's a picture of me today:

As you can see, it is not the traditional Harry Potter scar. It's the traditional Harry Issue Spotter scar. If a young wizard would get a lightning bolt scar, a young lawyer would get an LLP scar, no?

If you are in the Harvard area, tickets are still on sale in the Hark until the show sells out. Best get a move on, they're going fast.

Quick Hits: 2/28/08

1. The guy in front of me in Sports Law just sat down next to another guy and remarked, "Hey, Thomas, I didn't realize you were a Fruit Snacks (TM) man, too." To which Thomas replied, "Oh yes. I am indeed." I didn't realize there were such things as "Fruit Snacks men."

2. Another guy who sits in front of me in Race Relations takes notes in a leather-bound journal using a fountain pen. It's very Benjamin Franklin. Or Fredrick Douglass, I suppose.

3. The vending machines here at HLS now sell ice cream. Harvard just shot up three places on the "Happiest Places on Earth" list.

You say "problem" like it's a bad thing

My birthday and Valentine's Day fall one week apart, so each February I am inundated with cards from family and friends. This year, somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 of the cards I received for the two events referenced shoes. When I think birthday and V-day, I don't think shoes. But when people think of me, they obviously do. And I wondered. Do I have a shoe problem?

I like shoes. If you know me, you know it's true. I think shoes can really make the outfit. But they don't define me. Well, not when I define me, anyway. But what about when other people define me? Have smc and shoes become synonymous?

Here is my beloved shoe collection. There are 32 pairs, plus three pairs of flip flops (which I do not count as part of my collection).


You tell me. Is this weird? 32 pairs of shoes? How many do you have?

Tacky Prom

This past weekend, Harvard held its annual Tacky Prom. The idea of Tacky Prom is simple: you put together a hideous or counter-culture outfit (or both!) and go party. It's a good time.

This year, I decided to go the counter-culture route. I always wanted to be a punk kid, but never really got around to it in my youth. I had, however, acquired a pair of purple mid-calf lace up army boots, so the underpinnings were there.

After carefully surveying my closet, I picked out a color theme (of course there is a theme! In my opinion being tacky means that you tried to look put-together, but didn't quite pull it off). I went with the red family: maroon top, red skirt, orange tights and purple boots. I chose silver elbow-length gloves (to match my silver eye shadow), a black bracelet (black goes with everything), and a peridot ring (green and red are complimentary colors, right?) But something was missing.

I needed a fauxhawk.

So I got's me a fauxhawk.

Here is the finished product

I'm the one on the right. The one with the fauxhawk.

You can't really see the orange tights and purple boots in that picture. Here is the whole thing:

It's not my favorite pic of the night, but it's the only full-body one. At least you can see the fauxhawk clearly.

It was a blast. I'm sorry I'm graduating and won't get to do it again next year. Wait. I'm not sorry I'm graduating, but I am sorry I won't get to do it again next year.

And did I mention that I liked my fauxhawk?

Fauxhawk fauxhawk fauxhawk.

You Wouldn't Know Sexy if it Kicked You in the Teddy

Valentine's Day is next week, and to celebrate I am going to tell you my favorite Valentine Day's story, which happened two years ago in a Victoria's Secret.

I was standing in line at the VS check-out a few days before Valentine's Day, having taken advantage of one of those undies sales for which they are so famous. In front of me was a youngish middle-aged man, who was nervously clutching a silky teddy. When he got to the check-out, he handed over a coupon and the teddy and fumbled for his wallet. The cashier scanned the coupon, and then looked up apologetically.

Cashier: I'm sorry, sir, but this coupon has expired.
Man: What?
Cashier: This coupon. It expired a couple of days ago. I'm sorry.
[pause while they both look at the teddy lying on the counter]
Cashier: And that's not very sexy, either.
Man: Oh. [sadly] Well, I liked it.
Cashier: Oh! No! I meant it's not of our Very Sexy collection. It's part of our Angel collection. Your coupon was for something from the Very Sexy collection. I think it's lovely! Very sexy! Just not Very Sexy.

I nearly fell over, I was laughing so hard. May Valentine's Day bring you joy, too.

Super sigh

Well, the New England Patriots are not 19-0. I'm disappointed, even though I don't have any sort of enduring loyalty to the team. Traditionally, I make the team of the region in which I am living third on my rankings, behind whatever team Peyton Manning is playing for and the Tennessee Titans. Since both the Colts and the Titans were out of the running, I cheered for the hometown favorite, the Patriots, particularly because Patto is a Giants fan, and a little playful controversy never hurt anyone.

Today Harvard is awash in Giants jerseys. Harvard is one of the few places on Earth that you will not be beaten to a pulp for gleefully wearing the opposing team's colors the day after the home team loses. This is true for a few reasons: 1) No one is actually from New England. We all come from different places, so the highest the Patriots could have ranked on anyone's list is about third. 2) The school is mostly made up of people from California and New York. The Californians don't have a dog in this fight, and moved on to talking about basketball weeks ago. 3) we rarely resort to physical violence around here (too bad, I know). It seems the preferred method is heated but ridiculously polite discourse, which seems a little foreign to me, but I'm willing to give it a go. Like I said, the Patriots were my third-ranked team, and are going to be replaced by the Bears in about 6 months, so I didn't get too twisted up about it.

At least now I can finally turn my full sporting attention to the Lady Vols basketball team, which have been beating the stuffins out of their competition in true Volunteer spirit. Good thing, too. By the time the Parody is over it will be time for March Madness, and I can't wait for a repeat National Championship.

Think Pink

No need to go on and on about the Maybelline long-lasting lipcolor that I like so much. You guys have heard it all before. Even el seester agrees; there ain't no "maybe" about it.

When I ran out of my lighter, everyday lipcolor, I decided to try one shade darker. My old lipcolor was Blush. One shade off is affectionately called Pink. And it is aptly named. For boy oh boy is it pink.

Barbie doll Pink.

Now, I have blond hair and blue eyes and pale skin like Barbie, so wearing her lipstick doesn't look bad on me- I've just never worn anything quite so... Pink. It is quite startling. And until I get used to it, I think about it every time someone looks at me. I have Barbie Pink on the brain.

Today is the first day of the Spring semester, and I have run into several of my friends. Many of them kind of look me over and furrow their brows, trying to place what's different about me. The conversation goes something like:
Friend: You look different.
Me: Let's go shopping!
Friend: What?
Me: What?
Friend: Did you cut your hair?
Me: No, still growing it out.
Friend: Oh. Well you look... different.
Me: Pink?
Friend: What?
Me: What?

No one has identified the new lipcolor as the cause of my differentness. I would be surprised if they did; after all, it's only one shade off my normal lip color. Still, every time I see a friend, I wonder if they will ask if I have a dreamhouse that matches my lipstick.

Come on, Barbie, let's go party.

TAW

My winter class this term is called TAW, which stands for Trial Advocacy Workshop. It's a great, hands-on class in which every day you prepare a different part of a trial and present it in front of a small group of classmates (and occasionally a large group of classmates and a camera) and get critiqued on your style, voice, mannerisms, etc. It's probably the most useful class in law school, in my humble (and correct) opinion.

Today is the third day, and we are focusing on cross-examinations. The first day was opening statements and the second direct examinations. The best part of the day is watching the people selected to perform in front of the large class and camera. They are chosen at random (even the supposed witnesses), and while some people thrive under pressure and nerves, others fluster, and fluster quite comically.

Yesterday, the alleged victim of a car crash was talking about the severe pain he felt in his back.
Attorney: Describe for the jury the pain you felt.
Witness: Well, not to use that old cliche, but it felt like elephants walking on and inside my spine.
Ah yes, the old "elephants on my spine" cliche. So tired.

Another one, which I find quite funny, may only be humorous to those in the legal field. The defense attorney had just finished examining the defendant, who is accused of murder. The prosecutor stood to do her cross.
Prosecutor: You were hanging out with your Marine buddies that day, weren't you?
Witness: Yes
Prosecutor: So after you had a couple of drinks with them you decided to check out the alleged robbery without calling on-duty police, isn't that right?
Defense Attorney: Objection! Assumes drinks not in evidence!

I would try to explain that one, but then it just wouldn't be as funny.

Yesterday I was called up to do part of my examination for the large class and the camera. They said I did well, but I'll let you know once I see me on tape. I used to have a body tic of slightly swaying side to side during presentations. I hope I've kicked that one, but we'll see.

Happy New Year!

I'm back! Sorry for the lack of contact, but Patto and I spent 5 days in Tennessee for Christmas visiting family, and 4 days in NYC to celebrate the New Year, with only a one day layover here at home between. We had a great time at both locales, but the travel and lack of personal internet time made posting difficult.

Today it was time to get back into the swing of things. I packed up all of the Christmas decorations, picked up my textbook for the winter term, worked out, ate lunch with a school pal and got caught up on each other's vacation, and did a few chores around the house. Tomorrow I think I will clean this place top to bottom and find homes for my new Christmas acquisitions. The new shoes won't be a problem, of course (thanks again, Mel, for feeding my addiction), but I got some cool artwork and other home decor stuff that I need to place just so.

I shall think on it.

It occurs to me that I have not made any resolutions for this year. I will have to think on that, too. In the mean time, tell me yours. Or tell me the one you thought about but didn't formally make because you weren't sure you could do it. Or tell me the one that is on there year after year. We'll keep each other accountable. As soon as I make some, that is.

Happy New Year!

Stop in the name of the law!

I saw this Christmas decoration at Target last night and just started laughing.


Hands where I can see them, Frosty.

Maybe I just need to get out more.

I'd know your order anyway, babe

Today I popped into my favorite, family-owned local restaurant (with authentic Argentinian garb!) to get a delicious and deliciously huge burrito. I'm pretty sure the kids that run the front are a brother-sister team. At any rate, they are young- teens or possibly just out of teen years, and while their English is considerably better than their older co-workers, I still have to strain and listen carefully to understand what they are asking me. Luckily, I have been there enough to know the routine inside and out, and they could talk to me in Chinese and I would still have a pleasant dining experience.

Today was a bit different. After I gave my order, the young male cashier leaned as casually as I think he could lean against the counter and said "So how have you been? You haven't been in here lately."
Me, very surprised at this break in routine, and that he remembers me: I've been doing very well, thank you.
A pause.
Him: How old are you?
Me: What?
Him: How OLD are you?
Me: 24.
Him: Really? Wow.
I start laughing at this point as I hand him my money.
Him: Why are you laughing? (He sounds a bit hurt).
Me: Because I didn't expect you to ask me how old I am.
Him: It's just a question.
Me: How old are you?
Him, proudly, puffing up: I'll be 19 in July. (For our viewers following along at home, that makes him 18.5).

Pause. I gather my change and get my food. To go.

Me: Have a good day.
Him: So maybe I'll see around sometime.
Me: Bye now.

Ha. I tell ya what, I still got it. The young 18.5 year olds really go for me. I wouldn't trade Patrick for anyone, but one has to consider whether this guy could get me the cherished burrito-discount... I'm just saying it's something to think about.

What? Adults color, too.

If you read the 100 things about me post, you know that I take Flintstones gummy vitamins (two a day!) instead of the chalky, huge, One-a-Day type. Though Patto likes to make fun of me, I maintain that a lot of adult women prefer to pop in a couple of grape gummy Dino's rather than choke down those horse pills. I mean, I found out about these vitamins from one of my law school buddies-- that just drips of respectability!

That is, until they started packaging my gummies with a free crayon. Or rather, A FREE CRAYOLA TWISTER CRAYON!

A little harder to justify with the free crayon, I gotta admit.

Wayfaring Stranger

I have finished my last final, and am laying on the couch having a glass of wine. Patrick is out with some friends to see a movie. A couple of Christmas candles and the Christmas tree light the dark apartment. My laptop is down to 9% but I don't feel like getting up to plug it in. Tobey is asleep on my chest.

I am listening to Wayfaring Stranger as performed by Andreas Scholl. You can sample the music here (on right hand side under "highlights").

Lyrics:
I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
While traveling through this world of woe
Yet there's no sickness, toil or danger
In that bright world to which I go.
I'm going home to see my father
I'm going there no more to roam
I'm only going over Jordan
I'm only going over home.

I know dark clouds will hang around me
I know my way is rough and steep
Yet golden fields lay just before me
where God's redeemed their vigils keep.
I'm going home to see my mother
She said she'd meet me when I come
I'm only going over Jordan
I'm only going over home.

In short, it is well with my soul.

Christmas Sweater Party

Last night, Patto and I attended the annual "Christmas Sweater Party" hosted by one of his co-workers, who is known for throwing the best parties. She always picks an unusual theme and runs with it, and her friends are fun enough to play along and really get into the spirit. Obviously, the theme of this party was Christmas sweaters, the more ridiculous and guady, the better.

Patto and I do not own any Christmas sweaters, nor did we really want to. But a theme is a theme, and we were determined to participate. I decided that rather than spending good money to buy a guady Christmas sweater that we would never wear again, I would try to make a guady Christmas sweater that we would never wear again! Now, you guys know that I am not that crafty, having only successfully completed one fabulous craft in my last 398475 attempts. And that one was promptly eaten by my cats. Ne'ertheless! I would try again!

I went down to the local dollar store and found two stockings bearing undeniably guady 3-D Christmas scenes, complete with a sparkly and fluffy Santa beard. I also purchased simple sweatshirts from the craft store next door. I cut up the stockings and sewed the scenes to the front of the sweatshirts. Voila! Total cost: $7 per shirt. Total time: $10 min per shirt. Total outcome:

Awesome.

smc: 2, crafts: 398474. Marked improvement.

Another great party, Allison, thanks!

Boom

Whenever I am having a bad day, or a long day, or a stressful day, I go and watch this video and it cheers me up. I could watch it over and over again. Enjoy!

Snow Day!

It snowed yesterday, and I mean good. 9 inches on the ground and drifts of over 2 ft. Here is our backyard:

Yes, that fence is higher than 3 ft tall

This is a snow adventure everyone can enjoy! Can YOU find the back steps in this picture?


Hint: There are four of them

It's not as much fun to have snow days when your husband is at work and there is no one to build snowpersons with. The cats weren't interested in a snowball fight, either. It's times like these a kid might come in handy. I wonder if any of the neighbors have one I could borrow...

I'm off to make snow angels. It's part of studying for Constitutional Law, I promise.

That just ain't right

So it's time for my annual check-up. But this time, the only doctor who can see me in the next three months is a male doctor.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't think there's anything wrong with being a male doctor per se, I'm just saying that there are some things boys ain't got no business doing- and being an OB/GYN is one of them. Now I know male doctors go to school and work hard and all that just like regular doctors, but I mean, come on. Male doctor as my primary care physician? No way. What if he became hysterical in the middle of my examination?

Male doctors as OB/GYNs. What will they come up with next?

Protestant Trumps Jew Trumps Catholic Trumps Jew Again

I am reading various articles about the history and the development of the legal profession for one of my finals, and one article (from 1982) suggested that the legal profession is really divided into two hemispheres- one stocked with lawyers for private, wealthy families and corporations, and one stocked with lawyers who work for the public or regular Joes. The article said that the lawyers from the two hemispheres are entirely different- from different law schools, different social backgrounds, even different religions.

Apparently, "high ranking" Protestants (Episcopalian and Presbyterian) went into more prestigious corporate work than Jews. Jews were overrepresented among tax, real estate and labor law (both union and management). Catholics were most likely to be prosecutors and personal injury lawyers (you can almost hear the disdain in the author's voice (personal injury attorneys!)), but just when you thought we had established the prestige order, Jews are five times more likely that any other religion to be divorce lawyers. DIVORCE! The SHAME!

So. Figure out your religion and then attend a law school of more or less prestige accordingly. After all, you wouldn't want to be the only Catholic at a WASPy client meeting, am I right? Am I right? Myum myum myum. (Oh, Muffy, you're so funny!)

Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhhh.

It's that time again

Finals are upon us.

FINALS ARE UPON US!

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Whew

While out shopping today, Patrick and I stopped into Jared The Galleria of Jewelry (TM) to have my wedding band and engagement ring cleaned and inspected. The technician discovered that one of the small diamonds in my wedding band was severely chipped and needed to be replaced. Luckily, we got the super extended lifetime service plan, which means we could drop it into the garbage disposal and they would restore the mangled remains to pristine perfection.

Let me tell you- ALWAYS get the insurance/lifetime service plan, especially if you are clumsy like me and prone to slamming your hands into walls/floors/other people. It's worth it in the end.

Those God-Awful Undies

Gift-shopping time is upon us, and advertisers are out in full force playing on whatever values, fads or stereotypes they can in order to sell their goods. I have become interested lately in how advertisements portray gender and relations between men and women (and children) in mainstream media. I'm thinking of writing a brief article on it in the Spring at the encouragement of one of my Professors (never before have I wanted to write so much about so many things that are not my thesis, and so little about the thing that is. I suspect the two concepts are related).

Anyway, I would like to express my extreme ire about the "Property of" underpants that are popular these days. These are various styles of undies that are emblazoned with "Property of Tom" or "Mike's" across their fronts or backs. Here's a fine example:

"Property of Joe Smith"

Harmless and cute? Maybe. But think about what message they communicate. If you are the property of a man, what are your respective rights? Didn't you cede access to yourself to him? If he owns you, can't he do what he wants with you? Oooh, subrogation is sexy! Think I'm taking it too far? The actual tag line to this ad is "Here's a good way to let him feel like he owns you!" I'm not kidding. See for yourself.

"Oh," you might think, "don't get your (unowned) panties in a twist! Relax! It's a fun way to flirt with your partner." Sure. Say, have you seen those sexy man-undies that say "Property of Susan?" No? Odd, I wonder why not. Perhaps it's because it's laughable in our society to think that a man could be owned by a woman in the same way a woman could be owned by a man. Or you might counter by saying that it doesn't exist because men just wouldn't buy it so there's no market for it. I tell you that we're both right, and in fact are making the same point.

Please don't misunderstand me. I am not insulting the incredible, fulfilling intimacy and trust that can exist when sharing yourself completely with your partner. What I am critiquing is the societal encouragement of women (and even more dangerously, girls) to sell, objectify or subrogate their bodies to men in the name of being desirable or cute or sexy. Subrogation isn't sexy!

Standing O

This is the last week of classes before finals, and that means it's time to honor one of Harvard's oldest (and one of my favorite) traditions: applauding out the professor. Usually after class, the professor hangs around to speak to students and answer questions. But on the last day of classes, the professors give their closing remarks, and then gather their books and stride past all of the students and out the back of the class, to thunderous applause. It is exciting and honorable and I love it.

Some students say that they feel coerced to participate, and that if they don't want to applaud out a professor than they shouldn't be pressured by tradition to do so. I can relate to having poor professors and not being particularly enthused about applauding them out. On the other hand. It is an incredible tradition, and there are many, many things worse that people are coerced into everyday, and I don't feel so sorry for a bunch of Harvard kids who want to be passive aggressive about applauding their instructor. So. Huzzah for Harvard Law Professors!

Huzzah!

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Have you seen that Burlington Coat Factory commercial where a classy Holiday party is in full swing? Running around you will notice a girl of about 5 or 6, dressed to the nines in a plaid velvet and taffeta Christmas concoction. An elegant lady swirls by and sweetly asks her if she believes in Santa. The girl replies matter-of-factly, "I believe in cashmere."

Now, don't get me wrong, sweetheart, I believe in cashmere, too. But I'm just a few months shy of having 20 years and a law degree on you. I'm supposed to be jaded. You are supposed to be dreaming of sugarplums and trampolines, not comparing thread counts and tsking over stitch technique.

Leaf subsides to Leaf and all that.

Go On With Your Ethical Self

Huzzah!

I have passed the MPRE with enough airborne colors to practice law in the state of Illinois! Step 1 of the bar process complete. Now I only have left steps 2-3490857! Well on my way!

Exclamation point!

The Season's Creepiest, Sexually Coercive Song

I'm not a big fan of fluffy, secular shopping mall Christmas music. Frosty the Snowman and Rudolf the Reindeer annoy the living heck out of me. Sure, I love a good "Carol of the Bells" and "I'll be home for Christmas," but for the most part, give me "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and "Silent Night" any day of the (winter) week.

With that said, I would rather be surrounded by an entire singing cast of animated winter critters and a cartoon jolly old St. Nicholas than hear "Baby, It's Cold Outside" one more time. Oh yeah, I know what you're thinking- "I love that song! It has such a catchy tune! The singers harmonize so well!" I'll grant you that it's catchy and the music pleasant-sounding. But listen to the lyrics. What? All you can remember is "Baby, It's cold outside?" Then allow me to help you. The woman's lines are first- followed by the man's responses.

I really can't stay - Baby it's cold outside
I've got to go away - Baby it's cold outside
This evening has been - Been hoping that you'd drop in
So very nice - I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
My mother will start to worry - Beautiful, what's your hurry?
My father will be pacing the floor - Listen to the fireplace roar
So really I'd better scurry - Beautiful, please don't hurry
well, maybe just a half a drink more - Put some music on while I pour

I simply must go - Baby, it's cold outside
The answer is no - Ooh baby, it's cold outside
This welcome has been - I'm lucky that you dropped in
So nice and warm -- Look out the window at that storm
My sister will be suspicious - Man, your lips look so delicious
My brother will be there at the door - Waves upon a tropical shore
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious - Gosh your lips look delicious
Well maybe just a half a drink more - Never such a blizzard before

The neighbors might think - Baby, it's bad out there
Say, what's in this drink? - No cabs to be had out there
I wish I knew how - Your eyes are like starlight now
To break this spell - I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell
I ought to say no, no, no, sir - Mind if I move a little closer
At least I'm gonna say that I tried - What's the sense in hurting my pride
I really can't stay - Baby don't hold out
Ahh, but it's cold outside

I've got to go home - Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there
Say, lend me your comb - It's up to your knees out there
You've really been grand - Your eyes are like starlight now
But don't you see - How can you do this thing to me
There's bound to be talk tomorrow - Making my life long sorrow
At least there will be plenty implied - If you caught pneumonia and died
I really can't stay - Get over that old out
Ahh, but it's cold outside.

Think about it. Forget that this is a Christmas classic and you grew up with it and blah blah blah and really think about the lyrics. She tells him she is leaving. He begs her to stay. She tells him she can't. He turns up the pressure ("forget that old out"). She tries to be nice about it, but remains firm. He tries to distract her by talking about how beautiful she is. She offers a polite concession- "half a drink more." And he freaking DRUGS HER! What? You missed that all those times you sang along in the shopping mall? He PUTS SOMETHING INTO HER DRINK in the third verse. Stop and think about what that means. If you aren't 100% disgusted with him right now, ask yourself why not.

In some of the most popular versions of this song, the singers speak-sing to each other at the end and she finally agrees to stay. Her line is "Well... I really shouldn't... Oh, Alright." This infuriates me, because undoubtedly some people are thinking "Hey, she really wanted to stay the whole time- she just wanted to play hard to get or try to avoid a bad reputation, etc etc- so why shouldn't he pressure her to stay if that's what she really wanted?" After all, don't we live in a culture that suggests that sometimes "no means yes"? Indeed. In the academic circles we call that "rape culture"- the idea that every woman wants to have sex with you, and if you just pressure her a little bit, and then a little bit more, and then maybe give her more alcohol or slip something into her drink to "loosen her up a bit" she will eventually comply...

These ideas are reinforced through advertising, stereotypes, television and yes, even beloved old Christmas songs. And don't think that it really doesn't mean anything, and that only lowlifes who are prone to rape buy in to that culture. At a Harvard Law party earlier this fall, one of my fellow students offered the observation that all women "need a little coaxing" in order to agree to sex. He explained it through evolutionary biology terms (another post on why I hate evolutionary biology), and said that the reason women do not naturally engage in casual sex is that they have to ensure that if they become pregnant, their partners will stay around to protect them and their helpless offspring against attack or starvation. Therefore, when a woman is hesitant about engaging in sex, she is really asking "are you going to stick around through the next rival tribe attack?" And what you have to do is assure her you will. This is why, as he put it, "women say, 'oh, I don't know if we should, do you think it's really a good idea?' And you say, 'come on, it'll be fine.' You have to be a little coercive (he actually used that word) in order to reassure her."

WTF?!?!?!

Crap like this makes me want to overturn tables and set fire to things.

EDIT: 12/4/07:
Special thanks to Ken Basin, who helpfully sent the link to the YouTube video in which you can watch her push him away and try to gather her things at least 50 times before she sits back down at the end. Alas, in this version you don't get to see him physically put something into her drink, but you do get to see him grab her arm and block the door. Say it with me now: CREEPY.

Pompous mood-killer

At the table behind me in the Hark, an incredibly arrogant 1L exhibitionist is (loudly) telling his comrades about the girl he could deign to like and how she is so ridiculous and how this one simple misunderstanding was blown way out of proportion (by her) and now she isn't talking to him (not that he really cares, you understand). The other two people at his table are trying to prepare for their 1st year Ames argument, but this guy keeps on and on about the girl. The other two don't know the girl. He pauses every now and then in his long story and asks if he can help them prepare for their argument, but as far as I can tell, doesn't wait for them to answer before continuing his previous story.

Suddenly, the very girl walks into the Hark and sits at another table! He points her out. They look. I look. They go back to preparing. He announces he is going to call her over and have things out right then and there. And he does! He calls her name and she walks over and says hello and he starts his conversation with "Listen, [name of female], if we are going to be together you are going to have to get over this bullshit with Sharon." She says, "do you really want to talk about this now?" Oh, yes he does. And he proceeds to list out all the reasons she is completely thin-skinned and silly and she's like... okay... And says it's nice to meet the other people at the table and she'll talk to him again soon and walks away.

And he calls her "an annoying whore" as she leaves. I wish I could throw things at him in a socially acceptable manner. I hope she is smart enough not to be interested in him anymore. I hate guys like that- so self-important.

Argh! Way to ruin my otherwise happy vibe, jerk.

My Tree

Happy Day After Thanksgiving, everyone! And, I guess by extension, Happy Belated Thanksgiving!
Today I did a bit of shopping (although I did not get up at 4am like the crazies- I went around 10:30am and still caught some good sales). But all of that was just filling before I got to put up My Tree.

No, no, not "my tree." My Tree. Capitals. I love this artificial tree more than any foliage living or fake in the world. My tree has been in my family for ten years or more- I can't really remember. It is a complicated tree. You individually shape and place every single branch on the tree. It takes hours. But the results are amazing. I took over the building of My Tree from my parents at about age 16, and put it up every year thereafter. It was a yearly labor of love and frustration. As I was leaving college for Boston and law school, I told my parents that if they ever decided they no longer wanted the tree-- or if they so much as failed to put it up one year-- I wanted it. And, only a year after I left, they bought an easier artificial tree and shipped My Tree to me.

And today I put it up. Beautiful, frustrating, wonderful Tree. Even the cats somehow sense that this Tree is something to be honored and respected, not climbed or chewed upon. They reverently scoot past it, probably because I turn into a shouting and foaming lunatic if they so much as pause to sniff it.


My Tree

Oh happy day. Black Friday is looking pretty bright.

Hurts Because It's True

I was reading a blog yesterday in which the author described sitting in a Gestalt circle in which the other members of the circle shout insults, slurs and epithets to see if anything "sticks." The idea is that each person walks away from the circle knowing the truth about their weaknesses and insecurities- those insults that stung. He described the process as abusive and exhausting, but ultimately, extremely rewarding as a means of introspection.

I got to thinking about what insults would stick to me. In the past, I would tell you that if someone had said to me "you talk so much that you annoy people" it would have stuck (and stung). But I realized that I no longer truly fear that or feel it is true. I know that while I am still bubbly and talkative, I have developed enough social sense to know when to zip it and when people are eating it up.

So what would stick now? I really had a hard time coming up with something that would hurt because it was true, or at least because there was enough truth in it to make me uncomfortable. I thought about from 3:30 am to almost 5 am this morning, and I think a hard truth for me right now is that I intentionally hold on to past hurts in order to feel self-righteous or to nurse my wounds. I mean, who cares that someone I deeply trusted betrayed me when I was in fifth grade? I only care 15 years later because I was badly treated when I was right, and when I don't feel good about myself I can hold that up as an example of my enduring goodness and victimitude. And I had never thought about that before this exercise.

And yes, I just made up victimitude.

So. What insult would stick to you? Martin (the blogger) was right- it is an exhausting and incredibly worthwhile endeavor. I encourage you to try it- and then tell me what you found. It's none of my business, of course, but aren't you just a little turned on by the prospect of baring your soul to me?

Exhibitionist!

Mobius, the Champions!

The American Lawyer's Summer Associate Survey 2007 results are in!

Now. The American Lawyer is often derided as ridiculous and unimportant, and their surveys worthless. This is mostly argued by law firm hiring partners who are trying to ease the concerns of potential associates who just read that all of the mid-level associates are about to hang themselves. It is also important to note that the same law firm hiring partners forget how silly these surveys are when their firm is a shining beacon of goodness and law firm hope for the future.

Get your amnesia and toasting glasses ready, folks, because Mobius is at the forefront of summer associate happiness and joy! I think I can hear the whir of brochure-making machines getting warmed up for a new round of promotional materials.

Congrats to Mobius, (0ne of) the happiest summer associates places on Earth!

The Music Meme

Since I am newly back and forever behind on my schoolwork and thesis, I'm going to adopt the music meme from my sister and turn my iPod on random. The first ten songs to pop up are:

1. It's Only Me (The Wizard of Magicland) by the Barenaked Ladies. I still love me some BNL.

2. Que Onda Guero by Beck. For something completely different.

3. River Deep, Mountain High by Celine Dion. This is the only Celine Dion song I like or own. It was on a mix CD given to my by Melanie, the world's best mix CD creator.

4. The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel. I can hear my mom doing the "Crash, Boom!" background parts to this day.

5. A Whisper by Coldplay.

6. Only One by James Taylor.

7. Desperado by the Eagles. Yeah, I like the older stuff. Sue me.

8. Dandy Life by Collective Soul.

9. Real World by Matchbox Twenty.

10. Fat Bottom Girls by Queen. Queen! I love you Queen!

Okay, so now you know that if someone is singing in harmony to an acoustic guitar 20 years ago I'll buy the album. Purchase Christmas gifts accordingly. :)

I'm really surprised that the Killers didn't pop up in the first 10 songs. I am inundated with Killers albums. In fact, I think I'll listen to some now while I snore through my reading on the nondelegation clause...

Like Nothing Happened

Missing posts creates a snowball effect. Once you go a few days without a post, you tend to go more and more, until at least two weeks have gone by and you haven't written so much as a notice that you are still alive. Whenever I am in this position, I struggle between trying to explain where I've been and what happened and just moving on without explanation.

This time I have decided to just move on without explanation. I'll tell you about how the play went and other developments in my life, just not in one super-post. You'll have to get them flash-back style from later posts.

So. Let's move on.

Rise and Shine

My sis sent me this video, and I laugh so hard every time I see it that I just had to put it up. If you can listen to it with sound it's even better, but the video is hysterical without, too.




Part cat lovers, part masochists.

Sexy Costume Wearhouse

Halloween is approaching, and while it is usually a day of fun and farce, I cannot help but point out that many of the costumes for women reinforce the notion of "women as sex objects" instead of "women dressing up to be whatever they opted to dress up as that day." My sister commented on this briefly last Halloween, but I think the issue is just getting worse and worse.

This year, I have found a great parody of the "sexing up" of Halloween for women. Give it a view. And then be mustard for Halloween. And not of the sexy mustard variety, either.

It's 12 degrees. Do you know where your leg warmers are?

For some reason, it is freezing YET AGAIN in my legal ethics class at Harvard. It is a bright and sunny 63 degrees outside, but it is a brisk 12 degrees inside. The professor has sworn to us that he has complained about the A/C every day for two weeks, but nothing has been done. Perhaps a class of otters meets before this one, and require icicles as part of their learning experience. No one knows. But we do know that no matter what is going on outside, you need a spare parka for legal ethics.

At least most people have taken a good attitude concerning the cold. I imagine that a class exchange will soon go a little like this:

Professor: Firms are incredible sensitive to potential conflict issues. How many of you have already been screened out of a matter at your future firm?
The class is a silent, huddled mass.
Professor: Come on, I know some of you have. Let me see a show of mittens.

It's 1am and I'm not asleep. In fact, I'm not even tired. This is quite annoying, as I know I will be tired tomorrow morning during class. I have tried to explain that to my body, but it isn't as good at cost/benefit analysis as I am. We are a work in progress.

In college, I suffered from insomnia every 6 months or so. I would go about a month being either unable to fall asleep, or unable to stay asleep after a couple of hours. I didn't like the idea of taking sleep aids (that creepy lime green butterfly aside, those drugs are addictive, and I don't have room in my rotation for another habit to break). Therefore, my sleep options in college were:

1. Drink. Nothing solves insomnia like alcoholism.
2. Play pool. Nothing improves your game like those 3am practice sessions.
3. Hang out with the graveyard shift desk associates. They are usually funny and endearingly neurotic.
4. Stay up and write stream of consciousness poetry. You'll be thankful when your first book is published.

But those options don't really exist for me anymore. There isn't a pool table in my house, and I don't want to drive anywhere because a) Patrick might wake up and think I've been kidnapped and b) if I suddenly get tired, I want to only have to stagger 3 steps to bed, not 3 miles.

There are also no desk associates at my house. It turns out this place doesn't have to be manned 24 hours a day.

So that leaves drinking or writing. Or drinking and writing. Mmmyessss. But wait! I suddenly remember that Patrick got me some great relaxation bath salts. And while I didn't have a bathtub in college, I do now, and I might as well use it. It's not a tried-and-true method, but hell, it's still better than that weird butterfly.

I'll let you know how composing drunken poetry in the tub goes. Goodnight.

This limp brought to you by the letters K, S & W

Oh, I just HAD to be treated like all the other prisoners. I just HAD to have lines and be in the songs and double as a dancer in the fantasies.

What I asked for in spoonfuls, they gave me in shovelfuls.

My butt is totally kicked. I've been practicing 4 nights a week for KSW, and while delivering my 5 lines with conviction isn't hard, and learning the music is challenging but not cruel, oh, the dances. The dances are cruel.

The choreographer is beside herself because there is a small cast, so she can really do difficult, amazing dances. And they are both difficult and amazing. And after a 4-hour rehearsal last week and a 3-hour rehearsal last night, my knees are swollen and my back is sore and I'm closer to crying in the fetal position than learning these dances.

But learn them I will. Because my moans will be the moans of faith abandoned and hope blah blah blah.

Back to limping.

make-up free with smc

I have been reading a lot of interesting articles lately that support the proposition that the more powerful and visible women become in the work force, the more demanding their make-up and fashion routine becomes. Sort of a, "in exchange for viewing you as competent, you must be extra beautiful, too," situation. There are many, many sex discrimination cases on the books in which women were fired for being too old or ugly, or because they were not feminine enough. Very often, the employer's decision to fire the woman was upheld, with the suggestion that beauty was an actual job requirement for women in the work place. On the other hand, many sexual harassment cases were dismissed because the woman was dressed too femininely, and thus was "asking for it." Today, those cases are thankfully more rare, but the pressure to be beautiful and feminine (but not too feminine and sexy) in the work place rages on, fueled incessantly by the cosmetic and fashion industry.

Other interesting articles have chronicled the rise of the make-up industry. Before 1920, make-up was referred to as "paint" and was associated only with the theater and prostitution. Respectable women did not paint their faces. But then, as women entered the workforce, the cosmetics industry was created and the term "paint" was changed to "make-up" (making up for what, one has to wonder). The pressure to never go out without make-up intensified on the newly liberated woman. A professional woman suddenly had to be "put-together" in ways men did not have to be.

So I am trying a mini-social experiment on myself. I am not wearing make-up this week. Not a stitch. I want to find out whether I wear make-up because I want to, or if I wear it because there are social pressures on me to wear it and so I only think I want to in order to conform with expectations of what being a woman means.

I'll let you know if I come across any interesting revelations as I face the world without my cheeks artificially flushed.

Hooray for the Parental Units

Special shout-out to my parents, who today celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary. Thanks for marrying each other, mom and dad! Thanks for being a shining example that marriages can still work, even in this "look to your left and right; 50% of you won't be married in 5 years" society.

And thanks for ensuring that el seester and I are who we are today (God love us), and not some weird halfling.

Congratulations!

Ask and ye shall receive

I grew tired of being 3rd silent dancing prisoner on the right. So yesterday after rehearsal, I gathered the Director and the Producers and told them I wanted lines, and equality with the other male prisoners since I was cast as a male prisoner, and they couldn't tell me that the audience would stop giving the production a willing suspension of disbelief as soon as I opened my mouth because Hey! That prisoner is a GIRL!

They won't give you what you won't ask for. Know your worth. Refuse to be marginalized! Rarr!

And they gave me my lines back. And allowed me to sing the prisoner song. And double as a servant in one of the fantasies.

Hooray! I am very pleased. Now I am a full prisoner with all the rights and responsibilities you would expect a prisoner to have in a 1970s Argentinian prison.

Le Accident

You know I was an Resident Assistant (RA) at the University of Tennessee, but did I ever tell you about the time one of my residents stabbed her boyfriend?

No?

Well. One of my residents was an exchange student from France. Let's call her "Collette." She started dating one of the other French exchange students in our residence hall, "Pierre." And the passions flew. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they were mostly angry passions. His RA and I spent most of our time separating the two as they tried to beat each other senseless. Correction: as she tried to beat him senseless. When my resident got angry, she didn't use her words. She used her fists. And Pierre just meekly took it, and refused to break up with her, no matter how many screaming fights they had in the quad or how many times she was written up for throwing a 25-gallon metal trashcan across the community kitchen at him.

By the end of the semester, all of the residence hall staff was worried about Pierre. Because Collette never hauled off and punched him directly (or so he claimed), we couldn't just throw her out of the hall like we wanted to. She was getting on up there in write-ups, however, and we were hoping to be able to transfer her. We had called her in for countless conferences, and warned her that if she had so much as another noise violation we would throw her out before she knew what hit her. And of course, we recommended ad nauseum that she should go to counseling to learn how to channel her anger into non-throwing/pushing/screaming/threatening activities.

Then one day, the desk agent called my room and told me to get up to the third floor, because "there had been an accident and an ambulance was on the way." When I asked what happened, the desk agent said that Collette had just come downstairs in a frenzy and said the Pierre had cut himself, and she needed an ambulance. I sprinted up to the third floor to find the hall director, a police officer, and our lovers a fou, one of whom was gushing blood. "What happened?!" we all exclaimed in unison.

But we were met with a stony wall of French. They refused to be separated to explain what happened independently, and if they were separated, would only speak in French. The only thing we could get out of them in English was "it was an accident," so as Pierre was bandaged by the EMT, the cop agreed to let them tell the story together.

Collette Story #1: It was just another day, and our snuggle-bunnies decided to make a sandwich in Collette's room. Her only knife is a steak knife, so they were using it to spread the mayo and mustard upon their bread of love. But as she was getting ready to put the knife back on her desk, she stumbled a bit, and accidentally slashed Pierre!

Pierre Story #1: It is just as she says.

.....

But waaaaaait a minute. Pierre's wound is an inch-deep puncture wound (through his jeans) in the back of his calf, not a shallow slash as would have been inflicted had she stumbled for a moment. And how did she stab him in his calf? The way she says he was sitting makes it almost impossible to reach the back of his calf. And there is blood on top of the bed, as well as the floor, and none on the side of the bed where his calf would have been touching. There's something wrong here.

Collette Story #2: It was just another day, and our tumultuous pair had just finished eating some sandwiches. Suddenly, Pierre was threatening to leave her. He didn't love her anymore, and told her he was seeing another woman. She turned around grabbed the steak knife off of the desk and waved it at him, just to scare him, but she tripped just as he was turning to leave, and accidentally cut him!

Pierre Story #2: It is just as she says.

Oh my goodness! You picked up a knife and threatened your boyfriend with it and then stabbed him because he was leaving you?! That's a crime, not an accident! And it still doesn't explain how you stabbed him in his calf, since in this version of the story, he is standing and about to walk out. Or the blood on top of the bed.

Collette Story #3: Her English must be not so good, as that is not what she meant at all! It was just another violent day, and she and Pierre were in a screaming fight. He was threatening to hurt her, so she told him to leave. He wouldn't, so she tried to push past him to get away from him. He just grabbed her wrists and laughed at her and then pushed her backwards, hard. Seeing he was about to hit her, she turned around, grabbed the knife off of the desk, and told him to leave or she would defend herself by force. He grabbed for the knife, a tussle ensued, and she accidentally stabbed him in his calf!

Pierre Story #3: It is just as she says.

What the #*%&^?!?!?

Cop, exhausted: Who wants to press charges?
Hall Director and I: We do! We do!
Cop: Pierre? Pressing charges against her for stabbing you?
Pierre: No! It was only an accident! We have settled our differences now! No harm has been done (it's only a little inch-deep stab wound, nothing they can't party around). All is well. It was a lover's quarrel, nothing more. Have a good day!

And so, basically, everyone went home. We had Collette moved to another hall (finally!), and she left the University almost immediately thereafter. We never did get a story out of Pierre, and we never got one from Collette that made logistical sense. The walls were paper thin at the hall, but none of her neighbors, many of whom were home, heard the supposed "screaming fight" they claimed to have been having. One did hear her shout one sentence, but didn't do anything because, well, she always shouts at Pierre.

This is what I think happened: It was just another day in which Collette teetered on the brink of criminal insanity. They made sandwiches. Pierre was laying on his stomach on the bed, when he committed some boyfriend foul. Collette became hysterical, and started to scream at him. He did not respond to her, or perhaps said he was going to leave if she was going to shout at him. She whirled around, picked up the knife, and stabbed it straight down into the back of his calf. Enough pressure to go straight through his jeans and an inch-deep into his calf. He immediately started bleeding, and she realized what she had done and ran downstairs for help.

If only Pierre were here to fill in the missing line: It is just as she says.

Ich bin ein Berliner

In 1963, President John F. Kennedy made a now infamous speech in which he pledged the United State's support of West Germany as they tried to form a democratic government. To give the speech just a little more punch, JFK decided just before he took the podium to emphatically proclaim, "Ich bin ein Berliner!" which means, "I am a Berliner!"

What he did not know, however, is that berliner happens to mean "a little sugared donut" in German and is quite a popular little pastry. So really, he emphatically proclaimed, "I am a little sugared donut!"

I have long been proclaiming that "I am a fruit loop!" so I totally know where he is coming from.

Thumb Drives

I received a mass e-mail from the Registrar's office today with the subject line "Thumb Drives."

I had no idea what a thumb drive was, but it sounded terrible. Like a torture device, much like thumb screws. Oooh, I bet this was to remind us that some human rights commission was giving a speech at Harvard today to call for the end of using thumb drives in interrogations!

Or perhaps it's a reminder that they are taking donations to help kids get much needed hand prosthesis. And "thumb drives" is more catchy than "hand drives."

But alas, no. It seems the registrar thinks thumb drives are (yet) another name for USB drives. And they wanted to remind us that they still had some of ours from last semester's exams, and we should pick them up as soon as possible.

Lame.

Believe it or not, I was downgraded

Yesterday I posted about how despite the fact that I was merely a dancing prisoner, I was still going to give Kiss of the Spider Woman ("KSW") my all, and say my ten or so lines with all the conviction and ability God gave me when he knit me together in my mother's womb and said to me, "smc, thou shall be an attorney. Or a famous actress."

And then yesterday we had the read-through. And due to some of my very important dancing-prisoner responsibilities, I was no longer allowed to play the double that I was told by the Director that I would get to play. But no matter, there was still the prisoner song, and the doubles as orderlies and servants, and I had two or three prisoner-type things to say, right?

Wrong. It was announced that since there wouldn't be female prisoners in a 1970s Latin American jail for men, those of us cast as female prisoners would have no speaking lines. And probably not sing the prisoner song, although they hadn't decided for sure. And the doubles for the orderlies would probably be actual men, too. And I have to admit, dear reader, I felt even more disappointed. And confused.

Why confused, you ask? Because I don't understand why they cast me. I mean, I'm a decent dancer. I learn the steps and execute them properly, and with some attitude. But I am by no means so great a dancer that the choreographer stamped her foot and insisted I be cast as a non-speaking, non-singing dancing prisoner or she was walking out. Trust me. My abilities are in acting, not dancing. Which leads me to think there are other reasons I was cast in this part:

1) The choreographer is a woman who will dance in the show, and they couldn't have her being the only (female) male prisoner, that might look weird. So they needed more (female) male prisoners to dance with her. So they cast two more, me and another woman who is as equally confused at her casting as I am.
2) I have become friendly with the creative team who is producing the musical, so even though I did not have a strong enough voice to play an actual female, they gave me the part of silent, dancing prisoner as a friendly gesture.
3) I am directing the Spring Parody, and the creative team was terrified that I would retaliate by giving them horrible parts in the Parody if they did not cast me in the musical. This is of course ridiculous to anyone who knows me, but perhaps an otherwise valid fear in the dog-eat-dog world of law school drama societies.

That's all I got. I guess what really frustrates me is that before auditions, I asked if there were any good non-soloist roles to play, and I was told that the Warden and prison guards were great roles that didn't sing. But if they didn't intend to have females speak as men, why did they say that role was open to me? Why didn't they just say, "No, we picked a musical that only has three female roles. If you aren't one of those three, you won't have any speaking lines." And assuming they decided after auditions to limit all speaking roles to men, why didn't they just cast men? I'm sure there were two other men who auditioned for this musical and could be trusted to say "I hope my girl is still waiting for me" while doing a box step.

Oh, I am trying to stay enthused. I am trying to remind myself that some people were not cast at all, and I should be thrilled that they wanted me to be a part of this musical so badly that they cast me in a completely mismatched role for my talents. And then told me not to say anything. And I am not saying that this role is beneath me, or I deserved to be cast as a leading female. Not at all. I'm saying I'm disappointed. And I don't know why they cast me for a role they won't let me fully play.

That's me, 3rd tree on the left

This fall, the Harvard Law Drama society is putting on a musical, Kiss of the Spider Woman. If you have never read the book or play, I'll give you a quick synopsis: The story takes place in the 1970s, in an unidentified Latin American prison. Molina, the main character, is serving an eight year sentence for "corrupting a minor." But in essence, he is in prison because he is a homosexual. To escape the horrible prison conditions (including torture and general abuse from the guards), Molina fantasizes about being cared for by his favorite actress, Aurora, who starred in all of these fabulous productions when he was a child. One day, Molina gets a new cellmate, Valentin, who is a political prisoner. Valentin is being tortured so that he will surrender the names of his political accomplices. The story is about friendship, escapist fantasies, love, betrayal and death. So all in all, pretty heavy stuff, though there are some laugh-out-loud quips from Molina from time to time, and the writing is quickly paced and interesting.

I auditioned for said musical knowing there were only three female parts (all of which included much singing), but I was assured that there were very substantial prisoner guard and Warden roles which did not require solos and would not be limited to men. So I was hopeful to still get a meaty part, despite the fact that I do not have the strongest voice of the women I knew to be auditioning.

And then I was cast. Third dancing prisoner from the right. I may also double as another character for a tiny scene, although this will not be confirmed until this evening at the first read-through when they work out the doubles once and for all. I am disappointed, I won't lie. I don't even consider it bragging to say that I am a good actress. Objectively, I am a good actress, and I am disappointed that this is my last opportunity to really act while at Harvard (I will not take on a large role in the Spring Parody, because I am directing it and I do not think the role of the Director is to star in the production) and it is being used as a dancing prisoner.

But before I get too mopey, I must remember that a quick Google search of the prisoners in this production reveals that they have a song in the opening scene, and they double as orderlies in the prison infirmary and as servants in one of Molina's fantasies. And there are 9 prisoners in the original play, but only 5 cast in the Harvard version, so I am sure to have at least one line. And probably two or three. And when you take into account that I am going to double as an extra character, well, I'm up to ten lines.

So I will act my heart out as third dancing prisoner from the right. The world has never seen a dancing prisoner so convincing as I! My prisoner will evoke so much angst and heartbreak and hopefulness in the face of despair as to bring tears to your eyes, even if all I do is sit in the background and moan. My moans will be the moans of justice denied and faith abandoned!

Moan!

Hey There, Delilah

By now, I'm sure you've heard Hey There, Delilah by the Plain White T's. What you might not have heard is the story behind the song.

Because it is a small, small world, it turns out that one of my fellow summer associates at Mobius is the good friend of the boyfriend of the real-life Delilah. According to him, it seems Delilah met the lead singer of the Plain White T's out and about one night, and after much flirting, he promised he would write her a song. And he keeps his promises.

Understandably, her boyfriend was not pleased when she announced that the singer had promised her a song, and even less pleased when the song came out several months later. Apparently, Delilah has used the limelight to her advantage, and has made somewhat curious remarks when asked if she had any romantic interest in the singer, considering she still has that pesky boyfriend hanging on.

Patto and I think the entire situation is hilarious, and have taken to making up alternative lyrics to the annoyingly catchy song. What follows is my little parody:

Hey there, Delilah,
Bet your boyfriend really hates it
That I'm singing you this love song
And he just has to take it.
It must be hard
But I've got free speech and my bodyguard
I bet he's charred

Hey there, Delilah,
You looked great in that last interview
I heard your boyfriend broke his fist
when Rollling Stone contacted you.
How opportune
That we met each other in that bar last June
So here's to you

Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy

Hey there, Delilah,
Hear you've milked this dedication
All your girlfriends are so jealous
That they weren't on your vacation
When you met me
How flirtatious you turned out to be
Although not free

Hey there, Delilah,
I've got to be getting on now
There are other girls to meet and
I don't know your last name anyhow
It was fun
And I've made some good money on this run
But now we're done

Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, this song is so catchy
Oh, your man's got it in for me
Oh, this song is so catchy...

Ok, that's all I've got. I'll leave it to you to do the bridge.

Wellness Wednesday

Last year, Harvard Law started this program called "Wellness Wednesdays" ("WW"). In the beginning, it was really a pathetic little program, and consisted of a table set up in the Hark with a bowl of fruit. Some Wednesdays it wasn't there at all. Pretty much no one paid attention to WW. And that made the Dean of Students sad.

This year, WW came back with a vengeance. There are posters, and banners, and health professionals. There are four tables, with fruit, and Tylenol, and stress balls, and other types of good-for-you goodies. There are brochures on everything from the benefits of a brisk ten minute walk to directions to the nearest mental hospital. And there are chair massages.

I said, THERE ARE CHAIR MASSAGES.

You can bet that when I saw the sign-up sheet for a free ten-minute chair massage I threw down my bags and climbed over three students to get an open slot. And when it was my turn for the massage, I'm pretty sure that I only got out "do your worst" before sinking onto the chair and beginning to purr.

I loves me a good massage.

As the massage therapist began to work, he encountered the twisted knot of muscles that make up the right half of my spine, and after a startled gasp, started asking questions.

"Are you under a lot of stress?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you have pain in your lower back?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you sit for long periods of time in front of a computer?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you carry a particularly heavy bag?"
"Mmmm."
"Headaches?"
"Mmmm."

I'm not terribly responsive when I am receiving a back massage, but I think he could tell that those "mmmm's" were in the affirmative.

At the conclusion of my ten-minute massage, as the other masseuses told their clients to have good days, mine told me I could probably benefit from seeing a good chiropractor. Then he got out a brochure and said that the Harvard Health Center did therapeutic massages, and I would really benefit from regular sessions. And by lessening the amount of weight I carried, the length of time I sat in front of a computer, and decreasing my daily stress levels. In other words, I could benefit from quitting law school.

But back to the massages. If a massage therapist recommends getting regular massages, is it the same as doctor's orders?

Do you think I could present it that way to Patrick anyway?

Harvard Law: The New Class

Remember when they had squeezed the last bit of plausibility out of Saved By the Bell and introduced Saved by the Bell: The New Class? I swear that's what is going on at Harvard.

Either my contacts are out of date, or Harvard has introduced a new class of 1Ls who look and act like the recently graduated 3Ls (4Ls?). Everywhere I turn, there is an incredibly familiar face, ready to embark upon the same zany adventures of their predecessors (updated slightly as technology and hair styles continue to improve, of course). I have been fooled on more than one occasion by these doppelgangers. I wonder if eventually I'll be laughing along and wondering what section love triangle is going to pop up this time, or how the kids will make it in Evil Professor's Socratic method-only class. Until then, I remain suspicious.

The more things change, the more we desire an ill-advised sequel to mimic the past.

Misfit

I very rarely feel socially awkward, but tonight was one of those nights. All I could think of was how long until I could run away without looking like a complete moron. Or, better put, more of a complete moron.

Tonight, one of Harvard's professors (and the one I am trying to solicit to be my thesis adviser) was honored with an old and prestigious endowed chair. After her brief lecture, there was a reception. The three students I knew at this thing left immediately after the lecture, but I stuck around, because I wanted to 1) congratulate the professor, and 2) remind her that I exist so she will agree to be my adviser. But of course, my professor was immediately flanked on all sides by colleagues, and I didn't want to interrupt their animated conversations with my paltry greetings. So I was left to roam for a bit. A bit that lasted 15 minutes. I didn't know anyone else in the room except for other professors I had had throughout my tenure here, and I didn't feel particularly inclined to wander up and play the fun game of "remember me? What are you working on these days?" One professor did catch my eye and wave, so I walked over and began to speak to her, but no sooner than we exchanged pleasantries did another professor come up and begin to speak to her. They were talking about the Brookline neighborhood and their families, and I know nothing about the Brookline neighborhood or their families. I stood on the fringes, awkwardly, until both professors started talking about heading out, since they were going the same way.

I knew how I looked and I hated it. I was hovering, clumsily, not able to contribute to the current conversation and not feeling able to steer it back to a topic to which I could contribute. I didn't know one of the women, and the other I had only the most cursory of relationships with. She must of wondered why I continued to stand there for so long, when the conversation obviously no longer included me.

Finally, I spotted an opening in the honored professor's circle, and I stepped up and congratulated her. To my delight, she remembered me. No mention of my pending request for her to be my adviser, however. I plan to schedule a meeting with her via her secretary later this week, so all is not lost. As soon as she had greeted me she was congratulated by another colleague, and turned her attention to him. I quietly slipped away again and hit the door.

Ugh. I am thankful that I am able to act gracefully and confidently in almost all social situations. This one, however, completely got away from me, and I felt miserable. It was probably a good exercise, however, since so many people suffer from the complete fear of a cocktail party, and it's good to remember that they aren't just being sissies. Sometimes, wandering into a group of strangers who are not your peers and trying to blend in is, plain and simply, horrible.

Delicious crabcakes, however.

I would do anything for love, but I won't do that

As you know, Patto's and my first anniversary was earlier this summer. Unfortunately, I was still living in Chicago, so while we did many fun things, we did not eat the top layer of our wedding cake.

Indeed, the frozen cake was still chillin' (heh) in my parent's deep freeze, so on our next trip back to Tennessee, we retrieved it. It was wrapped up in a cardboard box, and then sealed in a generous helping of plastic wrap.

After letting it fully thaw on the kitchen table for a couple of days, I opened it with giddy anticipation. Besides the bite I had for the pictures, I didn't eat any of my own wedding cake. I have heard that this is often the case with large weddings. The couple that experiences the least of the ceremony is the bridal couple. Anyway, I was told it was delicious. The top layer was red velvet cake. Come to me, fruits (cakes?) of my labor to love and cherish the adorable Patto till death do us part!

Opened at last! Here it is!

Oh. Ewwwwwwww. I... I don't even know what happened here. I can see that the icing walls have fallen off (probably due to some scientific principle about the freezing method of icing. Mom?), and I know that the large and ugly gash on the top is from where our little cake topper sat, but... This thing is hideous.

Nevertheless, I cut a small triangle and ate it. Mmmmm, stale red velvet cake. But it tasted like it might have been delicious.

Last year.

Oh, well. That ruins my vision of candlelight, champagne and feeding each other little bits of red velvet without the photographer pushing in to rearrange us. But ever the trooper, I will press on. Maybe the next time I'm in Tennessee, I will just buy a little cake from my baker, fresh, and eat it right then.

Oh, and special shout-out to my sister, who planned to eat her cake top for her FIFTH anniversary, to occur in April, 2008. Might not want Tony to read this post...

Overreation

I reacted very badly to the pumpkin arrangement disaster. After I picked up the flowers from the floor and tossed them back onto the mantle, I burst into sobs. And I sobbed for ten, hard minutes.

It quickly became apparent to me that I was not crying over the ruin crafts project. It was just a craft, after all, and not really that badly ruined. The pumpkin frame had not broken or bent, and even though the flowers were all pulled out and lightly nibbled upon, the whole thing could be restored. It would probably only take 20 minutes or so to rearrange it. But I couldn't even stand the thought of starting over last night. So instead I sobbed.

What, then, did the ruined craft represent for me? After smearing my mascara all over Patrick's shoulder, we tried to talk it out. Was I too stressed? Overwhelmed? Did I feel as though I wouldn't be able to get ahead or stay ahead? Were we spending enough time together?

This is the best I have come up with: I have a lot of work to do. Hours of reading, classes, and a major paper to write over the next 10 weeks. And I had just come home from a really fun evening with friends. I was at a high in the midst of a mountain of stressors. And to come home and find my efforts ruined (efforts on a project I was so proud of because it was something new and hard for me to do well) it came like a punch to the stomach. The contrast was too much. It doesn't matter how hard I work or how well I think I'm doing, it all falls apart.

I think that's what the arrangement meant to me. Tonight I will try to put it back together again, like I always do.

Robbed

I had the best evening tonight. I went out with the Harvard Law Drama Club while Patrick was at the gym, and I had so much fun. I met up with Patrick after his workout and I couldn't wait to get home and tell you all about my evening.

And then when I walked in, I saw my pumpkin mantle centerpiece in pieces.

While we were gone, the cats jumped up on the mantle and destroyed perhaps the only successful crafts project I have made in years.

And I felt...

Robbed.

And then I didn't feel anything much at all.

I am probably my mother's cousin

It is autumn in Massachusetts, and autumn is my favorite season. It makes me want to bake spice cookies and put out Harvest-themed decorations. Emphasis on the words want to.

I am not as craft-able as my mother and sister. They make really cool things, like incredible centerpieces and flower arrangements and custom-made potting sheds. I make the occasional lopsided ornament out of glitter and construction paper. I have great visions of what I want things to look like. They just don't turn out to be what I envisioned. Or even close, for that matter. It's enough to make a gal wonder if there is any truth to my sister's claims that I was purchased from a flea market.

So mostly I do not try the crafty stuff. But this year, while wandering through the craft section of a large super-store, I decided to try. I decided to combine a lovely bunch of artificial fall foliage with an iron pumpkin frame. I have seen my mom do this with great success and much oohing and ahhing from family and friends, myself chief among them. So I thought, "history of poor arts and crafts grades be damned! I am going to make a pumpkin/flower arrangement thingie for my mantle!"

Here is the finished product:


I'm very happy with it. It looks even better in person than in the picture. I know it's a little dark here, but I didn't like how the pictures with the flash on came out. The whole thing was too stark, too focused. And that's not autumn to me.

So, while my one success at craftiness probably does not qualify me as my mother's daughter (or my sister's, uh, sister), I am at least a distant cousin.

Back on the tree, baby.

We run for cupcakes

This evening I had dinner with a couple of fellow law students, and at the end of the main meal, my friend Jess suggested splitting dessert with one of the guys, whom I shall call Sparkles. Sparkles is always very excitable, and even when he is at his worst, he can be picked up again with the spotlight and a good show tune. Anyway, Jess asked Sparkles to split some carrot cake, and Sparkles declined. In his words, "Oh, Sparkles does not do dessert." Why not, his table mates ask. "Ugh, we just don't. Especially because we already had a cupcake for breakfast." (It is important to note that Sparkles often speaks in the royal plural). Anyway, we pressed him until the story of the breakfast cupcake came out.

And so follows the narrative of Sparkles:

Sparkles: Well, almost every morning we run down to this particular Back Bay bakery (which is about 4 miles away), and as a reward we eat all of the icing and a little of the top of a cupcake, and then we run back.
Me: What about the bottom of the cupcake? (I am always concerned for the bottoms of cupcakes, the marginalized cupcake class).
Sparkles: Oh, we don't eat the bottom. Anyway, so we eat the cupcake and then run home. So since we ate the cupcake for breakfast, we can't eat the carrot cake for dessert.
Table Mate: Don't we get a side stitch from eating cupcake icing in the midle of an 8 mile run?
Sparkles: Oh no, we're fine. We love butter. We LIVE for butter!

But apparently, not carrot cake.

If I were Sparkles, and I was telling this story, it would go something like this:

Me: Oh, smc does not do desserts.
Table: Why not?
Me: Well, almost every morning we make our darling husband drive us to the corner bakery where we consume one entire cupcake (as long as it does not have too much icing. And we savor the bottom). And then we jog half a block to the supermarket where we buy a carton of milk. And then we jog back to the bakery and have another cupcake. And then our husband drives us home.
Table: So you can't split any cake?
Me: Well. Maybe if we split it...

We would make a pathetic Sparkles.

Back to School

Today is my last first day of school.

I have my pens and pencils and highlighters at the ready. I've purchased all of my books. I cleaned out my book bag from last year and created new files for this year's classes on my trusty MacBook. I'm ready.

But I'm nostalgic. Last week I gave tours to the brand new class of 1Ls. And I remembered how excited I was to start law school. Harvard law school! And I suddenly missed all of the fun orientation events and welcome cocktail hours and having a "section mom"- a professor who watches our for your section and makes sure you are adapting well (Of course, this professor is not usually a woman- but mine was, so the term "section mom" kinda stuck).

Then, over the weekend I watched the Undergrads move in, all toting a mom and giant shopping bags from Bed Bath and Beyond. And I missed college, and toting those bags with my mom, who helped me pick out all the best animal print accessories for my dorm room (because I was 18 and insisted on having an animal print-themed room). And I missed home football games, and painting my face with my sister and the other girls on my floor (and the time Amanda painted UT on her face using a mirror, and when she pulled away realized she had actually put on "TU"), and playing billiards at the UC or the Strip.

And then yesterday I popped into Target. And you guys know that Target in September is like going back to grade school. And I missed buying new markers and glue sticks, and I missed new back packs and reams of loose leaf college rule paper (limit two per customer!), and I missed being nervous (were any of my friends in my class? Who did I have for home room?). And I really missed getting dressed for the first day of school. Because first impressions count.

Although, thinking back to some of the things I wore in grade school, I have to wonder what impression I was trying to make.

And one day I will probably miss today, the last first day of school I will ever have.

That's what friends are for

Folks, there are good friends, and then there are good friends.

A good friend calls you and chats about the Labor Day sales she happened upon and asks if you did anything fun with your long weekend. A good friend perceives that you may have been caught up with studying and cleaning and calls you early enough that you can throw down your laundry basket and make it to the mall with three hours to spare so you can catch those sales yourself.

Thank Heaven for good friends, or else the most stunning black velvet blazer ever to grace this earth might not be hanging in my closet right now.

Appalachian State University is HOT HOT HOT

If you are a football fan like me, you may have noticed that 5th ranked Michigan was upset by Appalachian State University today. This video is an actual promotional video released by App State a few years agao.

HOT! HOT! HOT!

I tink I'mb sick

I have been hit full-force by a summer cold. Stuffy nose, stuffy head, sore throat, and general patheticness.

And I'm a total grump.

Hopefully I can keep the cold at bay with Tylenol: Severe Cold capsules long enough to enjoy the long weekend. And start school next week.

Commercial Confusion

Ok, I no longer get the "coulda had a v8" commercials.

I understood the first one, where the guy is working out on the balance ball and his trainer asks him if he is still eating right and getting all his veggies, and he says "when I can" and she bops him on the head. Ah, she's right! He could have had a v8 and he would have gotten his veggies! There's no excuse for missing them when they are neatly pureed into a handy disposable bottle! What a bop-worthy offense!

But now the commercials make no sense. The latest one is a montage with a guy passing up veggies at all these different functions and his wife (I assume she is his wife) bopping him on the head after each one. After about the 7th pushing away of his carrots and his wife bopping him, the announcer intones "Coulda had a v8" while the wife shakes her head disappointedly at her hapless, unhealthy other half.

But here's the problem. v8 is continuing the theme of saying that you can just get your veggies by drinking a v8, and to pass up such a simple solution is stupid. Hence, the head bopping. But the guy in the newest commercial isn't passing up a v8 or saying he hasn't gotten his full servings of veggies, he's passing up the traditional on-your-plate veggies. Why is he being bopped when he pushes away a plate of broccoli? If he ate his veggies, he wouldn't need to drink v8.

Maybe I'm missing something. But it doesn't seem like a good plan to infer someone who doesn't eat physical veggies is boppable when you sell a product that replaces those missed veggies.

100 things

I lovingly stole this idea from my sister, who lovingly stole it from another blogger. It's a good thing. I encourage you to lovingly steal it from me.

Anyway, for my 100th post I thought I would give you 100 things about me. In no particular order...

1. I cannot whisper. It's a stage whisper at best. Everyone can hear me. I try to whisper, I just don't succeed in it.
2. I used to get in trouble in grade school for talking in class all of the time. Probably because I couldn't whisper.
3. Thanks in part to my lack of whisper ability, I have a naturally authoritative voice.
4. This is great for speeches and giving direction, but it gets me in trouble because people sometimes accuse me of pretending to know what I'm talking about when I don't.
5. Often I didn't realize that was the impression I was giving. I have taken to adding at the end of my sentences, "Despite my confident tone, I don't know that for a fact."
6. I love cheese. Especially cheese with salted crackers.
7 Once, while Patrick and I were still dating, we went to a friend's wedding, and I tried to spread cheddar on a cracker.
8. Patrick told me that cheddar was not a "spreading" cheese. I told him that with a little elbow grease, every cheese could be a "spreading" cheese.
9. That pretty much sums up my philosophy on life.
10. I also like to talk about "personal accountability" a lot.
11. For example, I dislike it when people give excuses. I would rather a person say to me "I'm sorry I am late" and offer no explanation than to tell me "the guy in front of me at the check-out took forever, there was nothing I could do."
12. I am guilty of offering excuses, too. But I consciously work at it.
13. I am a terrible speller. It took me three tries and a spell-checker to get "consciously" right.
14. There is a scar in my right eyebrow of which I do not know the origin. One day I started looking through old photos, and I have determined it showed up between my third and fourth birthday. No one in my family knows how I got it.
15. I was a pretty rough-and-tumble kid, so the scar doesn't really surprise me.
16. In fact, I'm pretty well covered in small scars.
17. I have dislocated both shoulders, broken my left wrist, broken both big toes and both pinkie toes, sprained my left knee, had two cysts taken out of my left wrist, sprained both ankles too many times to count, and had 4 concussions.
18. I used to joke that everything that could possibly kill me has already tried.
19. I often joke about my clumsiness. In fact, I often joke. Period. I am a firm believer that she who can laugh at herself will never cease to be entertained.
20. I never cease to be entertained.
21. I have a great wit. It's probably my best non-physical attribute.
22. My best physical attributes are my calves.
22. Seriously. Great calves.
23. My sister wonders why I have such a thing about high heels. It's all in service to the calves, baby.
24. I have a black belt in Shingitai Jujitsu.
25. My husband has a second degree black belt in Jujitsu.
26. We met when I was a white belt and he was a green belt.
27. I had a crush on him from the day I met him.
28. I still do.
29. Just yesterday, in fact, I told him "I don't know what it is I like so much about you, but I sure do like it a lot."
30. Anyway, he didn't know I was alive when we met. It took me two more years to get him to ask me out.
31. He says he was always interested, but thought I was too serious and studious for him.
32. That's fair. He wasn't studious at all. He's two years older than me, and we graduated at the same time.
33. Of course, I graduated a little early.
34. But still. He claims that if he hadn't started dating me he would still be in college.
35. He is very smart. He left UT's engineering program with a 4.0 because it was boring. Then he didn't bother to go to a bunch of other classes over a few years because they were boring, too.
36. See a theme?
37. Anyway, it seems his stick-to-it-edness has improved substantially since he got himself an smc.
38. Oops, this is supposed to be 100 things about me. Seems I've gotten off track.
39. I graduated from UT summa cum laude with degrees in psychology and political science in 2004.
40. And then I went to law school.
41. As you know, law was not my first choice for a career.
42. I still take Flinstones gummy vitamins as nutritional supplements.
43. Two a day.
44. I'm very picky about my pills. I hate swallowing those big, chalky horse pills.
45. I have to take them with orange juice to hide the taste. And even then, I have the aftertaste in my mouth all day.
46. I don't know my sister's legal married name. Before marriage, she was CEC. Then she married an H. I know she goes by EH. But is her name CEH? CCH? ECH? I don't know.
47. I don't know if she knows my legal married name, either.
48. It took me 8 months to decide if I was going to change my name. I flip-flopped constantly. I only made a decision when Patrick announced he didn't know how to introduce me and I had to make up my mind.
49. I don't know if I made the right choice.
50. My best friend is Melanie.
51. As you know, we met in high school.
52. We used to make up songs while running cross-country and track together. And just in general, because it was fun.
53. "You get into the truck on another track day; Coach is kinda smiling, you know what he's gonna say..."
54. During track practice as a sophomore in high school, I was struck in the forehead by a discus.
55. The swelling was horrible.
56. The next day, a girl on the tennis team got hit in the face with a tennis ball.
57. It was caught on tape.
58. So people were too busy making fun of her to make fun of me.
59. I went to a cruel high school.
60. I was senior class president.
61. I gave a speech at graduation.
62. The only part I remember of it was quoting the "we are more than champions" verse of the Bible.
63. I love college football. I don't care who's playing. I'll watch it.
65. But if the Tennessee Vols are playing, I don't just watch it.
66. I armchair coach it.
67. I am very competitive.
68. Almost anything can be turned into a game.
69. A game I'll try to win.
70. Melanie is not nearly as competitive as I am.
71. When we play cards, she often suggests that we don't keep score.
72. And this makes the point of the game... what?
73. I love those "Where's Waldo" books.
74. And the traditional logic games, like "If Adam doesn't bring a casserole and Danielle brings a ham, whose drives a Saab?"
75. The answer is Caleb. Caleb drives a Saab.
76. I skipped number 64. Did you notice?
77. I did that because I repeated number 22.
78. Both were intentional.
79. I am the youngest of my family.
80. I don't buy the "birth order" analysis of personality.
81. It seems about as accurate as my daily horoscope.
82. I hate it when people interrupt each other during debates.
83. Or say "No offense, but..."
84. Or make global generalizations or stereotypes.
85. I hate it even more when a member of a particular group reinforces a negative stereotype.
86. Whenever I see someone royally botching a parallel parking job, I pray it isn't a woman.
87. I am a great parallel parker. Much better than Patrick.
88. He is the first to agree.
89. I have two cats, Tobey and Caesar.
90. Tobey's full first name is October. But no one ever calls her that.
91. Except my mom.
92. Caesar fetches rubber bands. He'll drop it right back in your hand, over and over again.
93. I've never seen anything like it.
94. Like all moms, I believe that my cats are the best in the world.
95. Except mine actually are.
96. I like dance. All types of dancing. Ballroom, line, hip hop, tap...
97. I'm not particularly good at any of them. But I still like to try.
98. I love colloquialisms. I'm all over them like white on rice.
99. When I grow up, I want to be the most respected attorney in my field.
100. Or a famous actress.

Goodbye Chicago!

Well. It's 2:30pm, and I am leaving for the airport at 3:00pm. All I have left to do is haul my hopefully only 50lbs bags onto a cart and take them downstairs to the cab I have reserved for me. Except the front desk is out of carts for a moment. However, I could not help but notice what floor the last cart has gone to. I think I may go knock on that resident's door and take it by force. Because they will never see me again, and I need that cart.

Goodbye, Chicago! Goodbye s'mores maker, goodbye incredibly stained carpet, goodbye awesome view of Navy Pier, goodbye too-short grocery cart, goodbye somewhat creepy mannequin in the corner!

Goodbye!

Flight of the Conchords- Business Time

Too funny. I nearly shot chai tea latte out of my nose the first time I saw it. And you guys know I usually reserve that reaction for when a family member falls down the stairs or something (you have to know my family...)

Hey smoopyliciousness!

The darling Patto and I are planning a trip to the World's Best Alma Mater for a housing reunion, since I was an RA in college and am still close to my former fellow RAs. The other RAs and I have been exchanging e-mail messages for some time, working out the reunion details. Then yesterday, I received an e-mail to the group that The Breakfast Club, the most amazing 80s cover band ever to play the stage in Knoxville, TN was going to be in town the exact! same! weekend!

It was a sign from God that this trip home and the attendant housing reunion is blessed!

In my glee, I quickly fwded the e-mail to Patrick, along with the following note:

"Oh baby! Remember the Breakfast Club? They're going to be in Knoxville the same weekend we are! Oh! Happy Day!
I love you my baby I dooooo!
Happy Wednesday, otherwise known as Wed "less than 4 days till I am back with my baby" nesday!"

Nauseatingly cutesy, I know, but I haven't seen my husband in a couple of weeks and I have been living apart from him for the past 3.5 months, and my mental state is deteriorating quickly without him. And he would have just chuckled and that would have been that.

That is, had I actually sent that e-mail to Patrick.

No, instead of hitting "Fwd" I somehow hit "Reply All," and in my extreme excitement, did not notice the difference. So I sent that incredibly snuggle-filled missive not to my darling husband, but to 9 of my former co-workers and my former boss.

They were good enough to send me multiple e-mails back telling me they loved me, too.

Admission Essay

Every now and again, someone gets real impressed with the fact that I go to Harvard Law School and asks me about my college grades and LSAT scores and such. But a couple in the know also ask me about my admission essay. What did I write about? Did I combine my political science and psychology degrees into a comment about the benefits and flaws of the current American Jury System? What impresses Harvard?

If you think for a moment that I wrote a comment on the American Jury System, you have another thing coming. But to ease the curiosity of those of you who really want to know how I wowed Harvard into accepting me in two weeks flat, I am reprinting the first paragraph of my admissions essay. I swear to you on my sister's gave (sorry, Boo) that what you are about to read is what I actually submitted to Harvard with a straight face (or what I can pull from memory- the actual copy is on a computer at home in Boston. I reserve the right to change this post if I get home and see an error).

"Law was not my first, or even second choice for a career. When I was a child, all of my friends and I knew exactly what we wanted to be when we grew up. Josh wanted to be a CIA agent, Jennifer wanted to be a novelist, and I wanted to be Queen of a small, tropical and fabulously wealthy island nation. Upon later inspection, I realized that the queen-market was a very difficult one to break into, and set my sights on something more managable: becoming a famous actress."

Obviously, the admissions folks at Harvard scrambled all over each other to be the one to type up my admissions letter.

The point is this: Harvard is chock-full of serious people who write about serious things. And that is great. And if you are that type of person, Harvard has a spot for you. But I am not that type of person. And I wasn't about to write a phony admissions essay about the intersection of law and interstate commerce. I wrote about why the law interested me, and I didn't take myself too seriously. And Harvard had a spot for me, too.

Look at me and my usefulness!

I finally have work to do! Well, I *had* work to do. Then I did it. But none the less, I actually came to work and settled in and worked! This is a much needed break from the two weeks of absolutely nothing I have done since coming to OFC. Don't get me wrong- I like down time. A whole day of not having anything to do? Great! But 7 days of not having anything to do while being forced to account for your time? Not great. Miserable.

To show you my level of functioning over the past two weeks, I give you a pair of haikus I wrote to Melanie in my height of bored desperation (this is something we did in high school quite a bit, and I'm a-bringing it back, cause I'm old school like that).

I have lost three pounds
climbing the stairs between floors
'cause it takes longer

than taking the lift
and I have time to waste, so
I print three floors up.

But thankfully, it will probably be Thursday before I subject her to more of my, um, creativity.

How do you get jurisdiction over the Garden of Eden?

What do President Bush, the Sears Tower, The Olsen Twins, Google.com, Charles Dickens, the Magna Carter, the Aztec Pyramids, Three Mile Island and Dostoevsky have in common?

They are all defendants together in this suit.

Sadly, the plaintiff never gets around to listing what he is actually suing them for. Just that they are in fact, being sued. Together. In federal court. For something regarding prisoner civil rights.

In America, even very very crazy people get their day in court.

1000 strong, and growing

Hey! According to my little counter friend, Diverged has received over 1,000 visits since April 2007, when I started counting! If I have figured out how it works correctly, it counts you the first time you visit each day, but then does not count you again for the rest of the day, no matter how many times you visit. So feel free to check back every 30 minutes without worrying that you are upsetting my counter. It is tres sophisticated.

It's been nice to have you along. Feel free to leave a comment. And remember, visit early and often!

Turf War!

Remember how I said that outside my window at OFC I have 30 something spiders? (What I mean is, there are at least 30 of them- not that the spiders are between 30 and 40 years old. Although they might be. I haven't asked.) Well, I was just staring out at them (and the city beyond) when I noticed a lot of movement in one corner of the window. There is a large spider that is engaged in a fight with a much smaller spider. Both are kind of jumping at each other and waving their arms (legs?) around while the web they are fighting on sways in the wind. The smaller one was doing a lot of running back and forth, and at first I thought it was just running for its life. But in fact, it is disconnecting the web strings that are supporting the larger spider. Now THAT is a clever tactic. The larger spider keeps almost tumbling off the web, and is distracted momentarily as it spins off more support for itself. This gives the smaller spider a chance to wave its arms/legs around at the larger spider, which seems to be the preferred method of fighting.

Spider Wars! Playing out in real life on my window ledge! Only instead of being orange and green (I was always the orange spiders), these combatants are tan and black. And appear to be barefoot. At least, they are not wearing matching hi-tops. Too bad.

First Anniversary

You guys know I don't spend a lot of time gushing. But this post is an exception. Yesterday was my first wedding anniversary with Patrick. He flew in Friday evening and we had a fabulous anniversary weekend. We went shopping along Michigan ave, we saw the Bourne Ultimatum, we went to the Melting Pot for dinner, (which is one of our favorite restaurants and where we spent our first Valentine's Day). Afterwards, we walked down to the beach with a bottle of champagne and watched the water and the Chicago skyline. It was beautiful. We exchanged gifts (we spent too much on each other again- it is ever our curse). Being that the first anniversary is paper, Patrick ended up getting me four cards, because he liked them and couldn't decide between them anyway. One was funny, one was kind, and two would melt your face off with the loving goodness that flowed out of them. Someone who was truly in love wrote those last two cards. In keeping with tradition of me being a strange, strange bird, I got him a card that referenced puppet shows. Que romantic.

People often tell me that the first year of marriage is the most difficult. I hope so, because this year has been incredible, and if it gets even better after this, I'm sold. As my sister said in her toast at my wedding, I have truly met my match.

And now, only two more weeks until my summer stint is up in Chicago and I can live with my wonderful husby full-time again! I have missed him these three months. I cannot wait to wake up close to him every day (not just every other or every third weekend) with his arm wrapped around my waist and his warm breath in my face and me gently and sweatily wriggling free because Oh. My. God. that man emits so much heat and he sends me into premature hot flashes every morning. I have missed those hot flashes and wouldn't trade them for hanging onto my own pillow and all the covers for anything in the world.

I have no comment on this

This is my husband.

This is my husband on a dare.

And yes, we are going to discuss that popped collar when I get back from Chicago.

oh hello my darlin' sweet tea

I borrowed that line from db. But it pretty much sums up the southern sentiment towards its unofficial regional beverage, sweet tea. Sweet Tea, more appropriately, because if it isn't a proper noun, goshdarnit it should be.

Even Slate has recognized the goodness that is sweet tea. You can read the article here.

Several of my friends tease me about the pitcher of sweet tea I keep in my fridge at home, despite the fact that I have been living in the great white north for two years now. One of my fellow southerner classmates insists I bring it with me to every study group and pot luck meal we have (the pot luck supper is another fine southern tradition). One fall afternoon she dropped by my house to borrow a book, and as she helped herself to a glass from the cabinet and made a bee-line for the fridge, I had to tell her we were fresh out of sweet tea. From the look on her face, you would have thought I had told her I was an alien in a human suit. After recovering from the shock, she slowly set the glass down on the counter, gathered up her southern resolve, put a hand on her hip and asked, "Well how long does it take you to make more?"

And I made more right then. Because a southern household, even one relocated to Massachusetts has sweat tea in their fridge. Besides, I was almost to the bottom of my own glass.

"[Sweet tea] is the house wine of the south." Dolly Parton

The smc v. quirky Quiz!

In honor of my sister's post about how different she and I are, I invite you to take the smc v. quirky quiz! Write down your answers to determine which sister you are more like:

1. Michael Kors is:
a. A beer company. They also make Kors Light.
b. A fashion designer. And a judge on Project Runway.
c. CBS's leading evening news correspondent. And unbelievably tan.

2. Cladding is:
a. A political term for running negative adds about your opponent in the 30 days before an election.
b. A particular style of fishing.
c. A decorative covering that goes over steel or concrete support beams.

3. A jigger is:
a. A measuring device for mixing drinks.
b. A measuring device for cutting wood planks.
c. A measuring device for baking bread.

4. How is an allen wrench shaped?

a. Like an L

b. Like a V

c. Like a Y

5. In chess, the rook can only move:
a. Diagonally.
b. In an "L" shape.
c. Horizontally and vertically.

6. Coleus is:
a. A skin disease.
b. A leafy plant.
c. An ancient philosopher.

7. The youngest member of the Supreme Court is:
a. Beyers
b. Stevens
c. Roberts

8. What is the motto of Lowes?
a. Let's Build Something Together.
b. The Helpful Hardware Place.
c. You Can Do It. We Can Help.

9. A Federal Reporter is:
a. The new, "PC" term for a Narc.
b. A collection of court cases decided during a particular term.
c. The member of each U.S. Senate committee who is responsible for submitting the year-end report on the activities of that committee.

10. Stephanie Plum is:
a. A fictional bounty-hunter and the subject of 13 books and counting.
b. An "adult-swim" cartoon character famous for her green hair.
c. A major writer on the critique of modern feminist literature.

And a bonus question!
The correct response to "It Ain't the Plumber" is:
a. "Then who is it?"
b. "Do you kiss your momma with that mouth?"
c. "Will you still fix the sink?"

Ok, answers are printed below.



Answers:
1. B; 2. C; 3. A; 4. A; 5. C; 6. B; 7. C; 8. A; 9. B; 10. A. Bonus: C.

If you answered mostly Odd questions correctly, you are more like smc. If you answered mostly even questions correctly, you are more like quirky. If you answered all questions correctly, you are some sort of super-hybrid sister, and we should meet you. If you answered no questions correctly, you will be made fun of as soon as we find out about it.

Oh, and if you cheated and looked up answers online in order to beat your friend at this quiz, it's a toss-up.

So. Who were you more like?

Old Firm Chicago

I have finished my stint at Mobius, and have now embarked on a three-week cameo engagement at Old Firm Chicago ("OFC"). I have settled into my new office, gotten a new office-mate from Michigan Law school (what is it with all these UM folk?) and... have not quite started working yet. We were re-oriented all day yesterday, and they were supposed to assign new work to us today, but they haven't done it yet. At least I've had a chance to catch up on my Slate reading (does that magazine get more and more liberal everyday, or is it just me?) and other such important tasks like trying to find little orange tags for my documents. Yes, I was provided with little purple tags and little white tags, but I like the orange ones best. What? I do.

I have a great view of the building that houses Mobius from my new office. And an even better view of the 30 spiders that live on the outside of my window. What is a spider going to catch 51 floors up? The heads of the tiny flies would have exploded at this altitude! Still, no less than 30 spiders make their homes around the edge of my window. They seem plump and active enough. So long as they stay out there and I stay in here, all is well.

Whereas Mobius was a very small office, OFC is a very large office. 500+ attorneys, 10 floors. As many of you know, I have no sense of direction, especially inside of buildings. So look for posts detailing how I nearly starved when I ventured out of my office looking for the bathroom and was not discovered curled up in a file room for 4 days. The nice thing about a large office, however, is the staff. They have staff that do everything. And back-up staff if that staff member is out for the day. And these people know their jobs. And if it's not their job, they know whose job it is, and will connect you to that person. Need little orange tags? You don't need to find the supply closet yourself. Just pick up the phone and dial office services. Orange tags on your desk by the time you find your way back from the bathroom.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find the library for some library training, since I have never actually used the library at OFC. I'm nearly certain I can find the elevator... this time.

Snap!

Not just Snap, readers: snap and zing.

The other night, I was on a roll. I was waiting at the airport for my perpetually delayed flight back from visiting the husby in Boston when a young woman approached me and asked if I had attended the world's most glorious undergraduate institution, because I looked very familiar to her. Indeed I had attended said university, and so had she! And graduated in my class- or at least the class I would have graduated with had I not snuck out a bit early. She sat down and the two of us spent an hour trying to figure out how we might know one another, but alas, to no avail. We must have just passed each other a lot on our way to the Humanities building.

Ashley and I were having a lovely time chatting, and soon caught the eye of one "Bill," who nestled himself on the airport bench beside us and proceeded to chat with us. Or rather, interrogate us. Oh, the personal questions this guy asked! I am not interested in making my life an open book (except, of course, on my blog... hmmm. Methinks I should rethink this...) Rather, I am not interested in making my life an open book to Bill, and neither was Ashley, so I curtly rebuffed him. But he wouldn't be deterred. And what followed was an hour and a half of me zinging him, and zinging him good. I had a snappy comeback for everything that came out of his mouth. My sister-alum and another guy we were talking to were in stitches the entire time. I wouldn't usually brag about this kind of thing, since more often than not I don't think of that really good zing until I am already out of the conversation, but I tell you guys what. I sassed circles around this guy.

I'm not always a smart ass, I promise. Just every now and again, when the planets align and some guy really starts to annoy me... Snap!

And not just Snap, readers. Snap and zing!

I'm not here

Under no circumstances am I allowed to post today. I am simply too busy at work.

It's my last week at Mobius, and then I am off to Old Firm Chicago for three weeks before I head home to my beloved Patto for good. I am going to miss Mobius. We had good times.

Before I start missing it though, I have to get through 3 more assignments by Friday. I predict Thursday will be a long day. And night. Which is why I just can't post today, even though there is a lot going on and I have things to tell you.

Ok, one little story and then I'm going back to work.

Last night, Mobius had a dinner with the summers and a ton of attorneys, because the summer is winding down and they like dinner. After dinner, a few attorneys and another summer and I went down the street to a local pub for a night cap. After a few drinks, one of the most senior partners tells the following story:

At a restaurant with his wife one night, our partner friend spots a woman who looks familiar to him, but he just can't place her. So he does what you would normally do in that situation- he stares at her all night. Finally she gets up and goes to the restroom, and the partner waits a few minutes and then goes toward the restrooms so he can bump into her as she is leaving (which is not at all creepy, really). Sure enough, as she is coming out as he pretends to go in and he stops her and says, "Pardon me, but have we met before?" (smooooooooth). And she says, "you know, you look familiar to me, too. My name is Ann Sandine.*" And of course the partner suddenly straightens up and says, "Oh! Your Honor! I didn't recognize you with clothes on!"

Oh yes. Our partner friend had appeared before this federal judge multiple times, but of course is used to seeing her in a black robe and behind her desk, not otherwise-merrily having dinner out on the town. So he bowed and scraped his way back to his table and wife, probably convinced that he had just committed career suicide. Luckily, Judge Sandine is very forgiving.

Awesome.

Ok, now I really have to get back to work.

*Not her real name.

Summers behaving badly, Part 2

More hijinks of ill-adjusted summer associates!

This story comes from right here in Chicago, from a firm we'll call, oh, Kitten Munch, LLP. Apparently, Kitten Munch hired what they thought was a good and decent fellow from the Univ. of Michigan law school to be one of their many prestigious summer associates. What they didn't know, of course, was that this particular summer had a penchant for getting drunk at firm events and pinching the bottoms of his female co-workers (summers and attorneys alike. He's an equal-opportunity grab-asser). He was promptly fired.

Fired! FIRED! Do you know how incredibly stupid you have to be to get fired from a summer associate job? (Apparently, about this stupid). I mean, even the summers that sent the email from the partner's office didn't get fired, just reprimanded. In the words of one of our attorneys here at Mobius, you have to feel the hot breath of the EEOC on your collar before you fire a summer associate in the middle of the summer.

What an incredible moron. On what planet did he think this might be acceptable? Certainly not on planet sober. And apparently, not on planet Kitten Munch, either. Hasta la vista, idiot. Enjoy defending those criminal charges for assault and sexual misconduct.

I know this was covered at Michigan's seminar on how not to embarrass yourself and your school at your summer associate job, because my office-mate at Mobius is from Mich. law school. And apparently knows the guy. I told the office-mate that as long as he is going to maintain is long locks, he might want to watch his backside around this guy. He could get mistaken for a co-worker.

7/30 UPDATE: read the story on Above the Law, a forum of attorney gossip and ill-repute, here.

Coffee Break

Darn you, Starbucks Mocha Frappacino blended coffee! Darn you and your frothy and frosty deliciousness!

I have never been a coffee drinker. In fact, I didn't drink coffee at all until college, and then I would only drink it once or twice a year, with dessert. Then in law school, I would occasionally toss in a splash of coffee with my hot chocolate. But nothing serious. All together, it probably wouldn't have amounted to a cup a week.

But now I'm working, and suffering from afternoon lulls. And I'm surrounded by other people experiencing afternoon lulls, and they often invited me out for a quick trip to Fourbucks to perk ourselves back up. And at first, I just went for the 5 minute break, the fresh air, and the company. And then I started grabbing a caramel cider or a hot chocolate to take back with me. But then I tried the mocha frap. And I'm hooked. It turns out that walks to Starbucks are the gateway drug-- you start out just to be cool and hang out with your work buddies, and the next thing you know you're drinking 6 cups of black coffee a day. It's a downward spiral.

I tried to explain my worries to my sister, but she missed the point of the downward spiral and seized on what a ridiculously shi-shi drink my beloved mocha frappacino is. Her words?

"You know, of course, that that is a completely silly urban yuppie drink, right?
And from Fourbucks no less! You're so on your way to becoming Frasier. I mock you for your choice in yuppie beverages. Mock mock mock! If you're feeling sluggish, get yourself a Red Bull or something. And when you finish drinking it, smash the can on your forehead. You obviously are needing a little more macho in your beverage
reputation. Mocha frap indeed! Resume the mocking! :-)"

And now you know why I always turn to my sister in moments of uncertainty and strife. Her kind words and strong sense of moral code inspire me to achieve my unrealized potential.

At least I don't get the new Raspberry Swirl Mocha Frappacino. Goodness knows she'd come to Chicago and slap me herself.

Stay tuned

I'm not ignoring you, I'm just recovering.

On Thursday night of last week, my two closest gal pals, Amanda and Melanie, descended on the city of Chicago for a crazy fun girls' weekend. And crazy fun it was.

I'm going give details (only slightly edited to protect the innocent) as soon as I get my hands on the photo evidence, of which Mel currently has sole custody. In the mean time I'm going to try sleeping again. I remember sleep...

For now, let's just say it was one of the most crazy fun girls' weekends I have ever had.

Play it, Sam

Seems it never rains in southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before.
It never rains in California,
but girl, don't they warn ya?
It pours, man, it pours.

A sad song, really. It's stuck in my head right now. I'm on a sad song kick these days. Another current favorite is Billy Joel's "Through the Long Night." The bridges are beautiful. Oooh, and Simon and Garfunkel's "For Emily, wherever I may find her."

Any favorite sad songs I should add to my iPod?