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?

Patto's new 'do

Last weekend, Patto came to visit me in Chicago. Here's a recent picture of Patto:

Patto, July 2007. Isn't he dreamy?

Anyway, while he was in, he decided that his current hairdo was just too... 'eh', and he wanted to buzz his hair. Now. I find Patto very handsome with his current hair, so I was a little hesitant at this point. But it's his hair and I support his decisions. (I have been telling him this for years, because I knew there would come a day when I would want to do something to my hair that he would not really want me to do, and I want to be able to say to him, "Darling, haven't I always said "it's your hair and I support your decisions?", thus trapping him into supporting mine. Since we're on the subject, that day came in November of 2006 when I bobbed my hair. He hated it from go, but is a tough little trooper. It's now back to shoulder-length, and he has quit whining about it).

But I digress. So Patto decides he wants to buzz his hair, a look he has not sported since the second grade. But I support him. And besides, he is always saying that if he ever starts losing his hair he is just going to man up and shave his head, so now is as good as any to find out if he has an odd-shaped noggin. Forewarned and is forearmed.

So I buzzed his hair. Buzzing a person's hair is some of the most fun I have had not on a segway in weeks. Especially the part where you run the clippers straight back and give him a reverse mohawk. I wish I had gotten a picture of that. But anyway, here is the final product:

Patto with 1/3 inch-long hair and no goatee. Isn't he dreamy?

The biggest difference to me is that I think it makes his face look more round, which is unusual given that Patrick has a rather long face (a horse walks into a bar and the bartender says... oh, nevermind). Anyway, Patrick returned home with his new crew 'do. On the following Monday, Patto reported the following exchange:

So, a guy from the admissions office came by today, looked at me quizzically, and said, "Do you usually wear glasses?"

To which I replied, "no, I usually have hair."

So if your significant other wants to do something out of the ordinary with his hair, I say support him! 1), he might stay just as dreamy (or become more so, depending on his current state of dreaminess); 2), he has no one to blame but himself if it is a terrible, terrible mistake (and any clever woman can think of how to use that to her advantage at a later date); and 3), when you want to do something drastic with your hair, you can say, "remember when you wanted to dye your hair purple? Haven't I always said, 'It's your hair and I support your decisions?' Now get to supportin' mine, bucko!"

Works like a charm.

Scalia makes me smile

Some of you know that Justice Scalia is my favorite Supreme Court jurist. Many more of you don't care. And yet more of you will gasp in horror because Scalia is your least favorite jurist and you're not sure we can be friends after this. Some of you don't know who Justice Scalia is. See me about this immediately.

Anyway, the reason Scalia is my favorite justice is because he is, in my and all other credible opinions, the most playfully brilliant Justice on the Court. He is witty, he is combatitive, and he writes dissents that inspire you to text your law school buddies messages like "OMG, just rd Scalia dsnt in PGA. ROFL!!!"

Ok, we don't actually text each other messages like that. But you get the idea.

Right now I am reading Scalia Dissents, a collection of his most famous and clever dissents. In addition to being highly informative and great debate-fodder, it's just plain funny in places, especially when he gets into one of his trademark rants. You can identify a true Scalia rant by whether Every Word In A Phrase Is Capitalized or every-word-is-hyphenated. Also be on the look-out for references to historical or literary figures, such as the "Majority's Pollyannish nonsense."

In case it will be a few days before you can run out and read the book yourself, I am including ten of the good Scalia quotes I have come across already. Enjoy!

"Now the Senate is looking for 'moderate' judges, 'mainstream' judges. What is a moderate interpretation of the text? Halfway between what it really means and what you'd like it to mean?"

"“[The Freedom of Information Act is] the Taj Mahal of the Doctrine of Unanticipated Consequences, the Sistine Chapel of Cost-Benefit Analysis Ignored.”

"The Court's statement that it is 'tempting' to acknowledge the authoritativeness of tradition in order to 'curb the discretion of federal judges' is, of course, rhetoric rather than reality; no government official is 'tempted' to place restraints upon his own freedom of action, which is why Lord Acton did not say 'Power tends to purify.'"

"[W]e Justices must confront what is indeed an awesome responsibility. It has been rendered the solemn duty of the Supreme Court of the United States, laid upon it by Congress in pursuance of the Federal Government's power "[t]o regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States," to decide "What Is Golf?" I am sure that the Framers of the Constitution, aware of the 1457 edict of King James II of Scotland prohibiting golf because it interfered with the practice of archery, fully expected that sooner or later the paths of golf and government, the law and the links, would once again cross, and that the judges of this August Court would some day have to wrestle with that age-old jurisprudential question, for which their years of study in the law have so well prepared them: Is someone riding around a golf course from shot to shot really a golfer?"

"The Court must be living in another world. Day by day, case by case, it is busy designing a Constitution for a country I do not recognize."

"This Court seems incapable of admitting that some matters - any matters - are none of its business."

"Robert F. Kennedy used to say, 'Some men see things as they are and ask why. Others dream things that never were and ask why not?'-- [the latter] outlook has become a far too common and destructive approach to interpreting the law."

"Like some ghoul in a late-night horror movie that repeatedly sits up in its grave and shuffles abroad, after being repeatedly killed and buried, Lemon stalks our Establishment Clause jurisprudence once again, frightening the little children and school attorneys of Center Moriches Union Free School District... Over the years, however, no fewer than five of the currently sitting Justices have, in their own opinions, personally driven pencils through the creature's heart (the author of today's opinion repeatedly), and a sixth has joined an opinion doing so. The secret of the Lemon test's survival, I think, is that it is so easy to kill. It is there to scare us (and our audience) when we wish it to do so, but we can command it to return to the tomb at will. Such a docile and useful monster is worth keeping around, at least in a somnolent state; one never knows when one might need him."

"This case, involving legal requirements for the content and labeling of meat products such as frankfurters, affords a rare opportunity to explore simultaneously both parts of Bismarck's aphorism that 'No man should see how laws or sausages are made.'"

"I am persuaded, therefore, that the Maryland procedure is virtually constitutional. Since it is not, however, actually constitutional, I would affirm the judgment of the Maryland Court of Appeals reversing the judgment of conviction."

And a bonus one: "The main business of a lawyer is to take the romance, the mystery, the irony, the ambiguity out of everything he touches."