Apartment Quirks

I have been living in Chicago for a week now, and I have discovered a couple of apartment quirks that need sharing. I present to you, dear readers, the adventures of the grocery cart and the smores maker:

First, the grocery cart. I went grocery shopping for the first time on Saturday, and the girl who is subletting the apt to me (Jenn) has one of those collapsible, rolling grocery dolly things that people who don’t have cars take to the supermarket. If you have ever lived in a large enough city, you have seen one. If not, I bet you can imagine. It’s like a foldable buggy. Anyway, I took it grocery shopping and on the way back was mildly complaining to myself because the handle of the thing is so low. I'm 5'7", and the handle was about 4 inches lower than I would naturally want to push it, which resulted in me being hunched over like an old woman for the 4 blocks home.

I was grumbling about height discrimination when I remembered that Jenn (the subletter) is easily 6 feet tall. The idea of her hunched over this buggy was hysterical to me (funny how it becomes funny when its no longer you). I don’t know how she managed, except that she must have only gone shopping once every blue moon, or perhaps forced a shorter friend to push the cart.

Another strange discovery of the apt: Jenn has one of those smores maker things. You know the thing you see in SkyMall magazine but assume no one would actually buy? Well, she has one. At first I thought it was a fondue pot and I got all excited. But then I slowly recognized it from SkyMall, what with all of the flying home I did last summer when planning my wedding. It’s got little trays for the gram-crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows, and this little pot with a grill on top for you to roast them. Now I must make smores while I live in Chicago. No sense in wasting a perfectly good smore maker, especially since I am somewhat confidant this is the only time in my life I will encounter such a device.

Something to tide you over

If you need a good laugh while you wait with baited breath for my next post, go on and visit my sister's blog, where my whitey-Mc'White sis actually says, "It was crazy like we was trippin', yo." Seriously.

Welcome to Chicago

Apologies for the long week of silence. I have moved to Chicago for the summer and I do not yet have internet access, so I have to hunker down at the internet cafe a few blocks away if I want to check my email or update my blog. But now that I am in and settled, I thought I'd update you on the move.

On Wednesday I hauled my two ginormous exactly 50 lbs suitcases and three carry-ons (I know the limit is two, but I looked so bedraggled by the time I was boarding the plane the flight attendants needed little time to determine it wasn't a rule worth enforcing and let me by) and fell into a cab to the airport. Despite the fact that I could barely maneuver the bags by myself (even if I do a great pack mule imitation), I had all of my baggage i's dotted and t's crossed, because my friend Jess had warned me that any time she flew one-way, she was searched. And sure enough, after I checked my bags and tottled with my three carry-ons through the metal detector, the guy who triple-checks your boarding pass announced with a booming voice, "Ma'am, you have been selected for a full search! I need a female assist over here for a non-alarm full search!" Then he put me in the glass box. You know the one, with the little shoe mats inside it? So I stood in the little glass box as hordes and hordes of my fellow passengers filed past me, the glass box prisoner.

Had this happened 5 years ago, the other passengers may have looked on me with fear or contempt, this blonde ponytailed terrorist the airlines had managed to capture before she wreaked havoc in the airport food court. Don't those denim capris and pink toenails look a little too American? Who is she trying to fool? Luckily, however, the other passengers are just as weary as I am by the whole airport process, and most passed me with encouraging smiles or "hang in there's." There but by the grace of God, you could see in their eyes. My favorite passerby was the woman and the small boy who passed after I had been standing in the glass box for about forever. The boy was clearly in the "why?" stage of development, and took a break from asking why the screeners wore blue to asking why the lady was in the box? His mom glanced up at me, sized me up and told her son "she probably did not mind her manners when she was asked to sit quietly before the plane comes." The boy stared at me, this mannerless convict for a second as his mouth formed a tiny red "o." He asked no more questions, lest he be the next hauled into the stockades.

FINALLY the female assist shows up. Apparently she was off swabbing down people's laptop bags and could not be pulled away. She takes one look at me with my tank top, tight fitting capris and bare feet and laughs. Then she reaches forward and gives a slight pat to my stomach, the only part of my clothing that could possibly be concealing anything (if it were, say, a piece of paper), and says "thank you, John has finished checking your bags, you are finished." I waited no less than 20 minutes in the glass box for her to pat my stomach. I would have rather just removed the shirt for the original security checker and gotten on with it.

The rest of the move was largely uneventful, save it taking me 20 minutes to go 30 feet to the cab stand once I collected my huge bags again. A couple of women offered to help me (I love Midwesterners), but considering I estimated each bag to outweigh them both put together, I declined. I stumbled in and out of a cab for the second time that day, and now I am settled. It's a fine little studio apartment with an amazing view, and I am only a 15 minute walk from work. Pictures and updates about my first few days in the Windy City to follow soon.

a long night

Yesterday, around 4pm, Tobey coughed up her afternoon meal on the bedroom rug. I cautioned her about eating too quickly and cleaned it up, and we went back to watching Law and Order. Around 5pm, she hacked up the rest on the hall rug. To make a very long story of a very sleepless night short, Tobey vomited every other hour all night until 5am. I would wake up at the sound of her gagging, get up and clean it up, and carry her back to bed where she would snuggle up until I was lulled back to sleep and then she would creep off and start the whole process over again.

Although this made for a very sleepless night, I was not too put off by the whole thing, since she is my Tobey and I love her and she was not feeling well. However, Patrick did not stir once. And this was off-putting. Around 3am I started to understand how one parent can get reeeeeally pissed off at another because he or she doesn't feel the other one is pulling their middle of the night crying/feeding/changing weight. I can imagine if this went on night after night I would be shoving Patrick out of bed with nary an "excuse me" when it became his turn to get up.

Tobey is feeling much better this morning, as am I. But last night reconfirmed that I am not ready for children. If only there was a way to make Patrick wake up and not me...

Here fishy fishy fishy

We have fish. And we have a pair of cats. And this often means that we have a pair of cats that like to watch the fish. This picture was not staged. I bent over to see the fish, and Tobey helped herself up to a closer look as well. And then roared! Well, meowed at them, anyway. But doesn't she look ferocious doing it?

cough cough, gag gag, oh what a relief it is

Besides going for a mid-day beer with my fellow student pals and spending at least two days staring at the wall, I have another post-finals tradition: getting sick. Ever since my first year of college, as soon as the last exam book is closed, I fall victim to post-stress disease disorder, or PSDD. Ok, technically I made up this disorder. But after 6 years of studying it, I am nearly an expert in its mysterious ways.

First, I should be reeeeeally stressed out for a good bit of time. One week ok, two weeks better. It must be finals or exam-induced stress, weddings and work will not cut it. (If you are suffering from non finals-related PSDD, get a massage and call me in the morning). Then, after being incredibly stressed out for two weeks or so, knowing that you absolutely CANNOT get sick or you will fail an entire semester of classes, you should relax with glee, because you are finished! FINISHED! HooRay! And then you shall get sick.

My family and I have a few of theories as to why this happens. The first is that stress will eventually make you physically ill, and it usually takes, oh, two weeks for that to happen, conveniently about the time you are finished being stressed. The second is that I was going to get sick anyway, as finals usually happen around the time of intense seasonal change, but my body is able to hold it off because I CANNOT get sick and the mind is a powerful thing. (that's my favorite, probably because it involves me being able to hold sickness at bay with my mind). Finally, there is a theory that this is all psychosomatic, and that I'm not really sick, my body just expects to feel sick because my mind tells it that I'm finished with finals and it always gets sick when I finish with finals.

Happily, this year has been very minor (knocks on... the coffee table). Only a mild cough and sore throat, one day of chills and some headaches. Nothing I can't party around. Stick it in your ear, PSDD.

Exam from Hell

Today I took what is in my opinion the worst form of the Harvard Law final: the 8-hour "take home" exam. At 8:30am, the exam is distributed. You have until 4:30 to turn in a neatly typed exam, by hook or by crook. It is long, it is stressful, and it requires you to sit in one spot for 8 hours and write 15 or so pages on one or two topics. And you emerge all bleary-eyed and hungry. And I hate them hate them hate them.

But today was a brand of take home exam I have never before seen: the relentlessly soul-sucking, panic-attack inducing, wad of evil take home exam. You could safely describe us as antipaticos. I mean, take home exams are bad, but they usually aren't evil. It was soooo bad. How bad was it?

It was so bad that although I usually finish take home exams with an hour or so to spare so I can check my answers and make sure I've had a chance to cover everything I think is important, today I had to just stop typing at 4:20pm so I could turn it in on time. It was so bad that it took me almost two hours to read the exam and do the recommended background research before I could start answering the question. It was so bad that one of my friends had to take one of her panic-attack pills at 3pm when she realized she only had an hour and a half left. It was so bad that when I turned it in at 4:25, I was only the 8th to turn it in out of a class of 50. It was so bad that at 4:30 as I beat my head against the outside of the building over and over again until I lost consciousness I noticed not fewer than 5 classmates running across the quad to hand it in on time. It was so bad we didn't even want to talk about. Harvard kids, and we didn't even want to pick it apart sentence by sentence, like we did with everything else. It was so bad the Mormon kid suggested we all go get a beer and forget about it.

Ok, the Mormon kid didn't say that. But we did go get a beer to forget about it. And it was that bad.

Tomorrow I have one exam left. Just one. Only 2 hours long. I can do it. I can do it. I have seen the face of Satan, and I have survived. How bad could the last exam be?

los gatos wackos

I think my cats have spring fever. It is finally hitting the 60s and 70s regularly here, and sunlight is already pouring in when Patto and I get up at 6am. Because its finals season and because I turned my ankle last week, I declined to join him on our morning run and snuggled back under the covers. As soon as the front door shut behind him, the cats went loco. Caesar raced into the room and into the window sill of one of the bedroom windows. He stared out intently for about 8 seconds, and then raced across the bed and into the sill of the other window. After a few seconds, he raced out, and I could hear him tear down the hall and into the kitchen, where based on the mild scraping sound I could tell he had used a chair to launch himself into a kitchen window. After a few seconds, he tore back into the bedroom and into the original window... then the second window... then back down the hall to the kitchen. By this time I was curious. I got up and peeked out of the second bedroom window, expecting to see a bird, or a chipmunk, or Patto, stretching in the yard. There wasn't a thing moving out there. By this time Caesar had run back into the bedroom to begin the cycle all over again. After he left the first window, however, he came to a screeching halt when he saw me standing at the second window, arms folded. He froze and looked at me wide-eyed for a few seconds, when Tobey came trotting into the room. She looked at him. He looked at me. She looked at me. And then I tell you, they exchanged glances with each other, and then both casually turned and walked out of the room.

I don't know what sinister kitty plan I interrupted, but being the good mom that I am, I followed them to investigate. By the time I reached the living room, Tobey was perched in a window, talking to a bird outside. Caesar had backed into one corner to get a running start, and then proceeded to run around and around the tops of the living room couches at full speed. Across the loveseat, a sharp turn to run across the couch, leap over to the chair, and then run back to the loveseat. Rinse and repeat.

Deciding it was time to put an end to all this craziness, I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the shower. Immediately both cats were stationed and meowing outside. They don't do so well with shut bathroom doors; Tobey because she has a permanent easement to your lap, and can't tell if you are sitting in there or not; and Caesar because he loves to watch the water run in the tub or shower and dip his paws in when he gets the chance. Sure enough, when I stepped out of the shower, all was quiet on the other side. Caesar had managed to shove an entire arm up to the shoulder under the door, and was patting it around (looking for a key?). Upon hearing the water shut off (and no doubt suspecting you could be sitting in there without her), Tobey stuck one of her paws in, too. This was too much for Caesar, as he has some sibling rivalry issues. Based on the sounds, and hours of observation, the following is a dramatic reenactment of what might have been happening on the other side of the door:

Caesar jumps on Tobey: "I was here FIRST!"
Tobey, body slamming Caesar: "You're such a brat!"
Caesar, jumping on her as she tries to walk away: "I'm telling MOM!"
Tobey, biting an ear: "Go ahead, cry baby."

And on and on until I open the door. Both cats struggled to untangle themselves and run into the bathroom. Caesar plops himself down into the damp floor of the tub. Tobey winds in and out of my legs, pretty as you please. It seems the craziness has abated for now. Gatos Wackos.

Finals

Oh, finals. Just as the weather is starting to get nice (we almost hit 70 again the other day. Almost) we students have to buckle down and study still we cry. And then study through the tears. During a study group a few days ago I had the joy of playing "whose life is more pathetic now that it's finals season?" I was in a close second with "I haven't been outside or gotten out of my pajamas and flippers for three days," but my friend Jess took the prize with "the only thing I have said out loud in two days is "keep the change" to the take-out delivery guy."

Flippers. Yes, I said flippers. For some reason, I have a natural habit of calling house shoes or slippers flippers. I don't know why. I know that they are called house shoes, but for some reason, when I see them my brain supplies the word flipper. And who can be bothered to double-check that your brain is supplying the right word when you are involved in the life-altering conversation of "Where's my flipper? I'm missing a flipper!"

Anyway, apologies if my posts are sporadic or grumpy over the next few days. I only have two finals and a short paper left. I'm armed with moose munch and a lap-cat. I'm going to make it after all!

snacks make the heart grow fonder

Joyous surprise! Yesterday the law firm I will work for this summer, whom I affectionately refer to as Mobious, sent me a Harry and David gift basket to help make finals studying a little better. I suppose they have a vested interest in making sure I don't go mad during finals season, which happens more than you would like to think. Anyway, the basket is stuffed with chocolate covered goodies. I got right to work on it. Of course, Caesar proved that it doesn't matter how expensive the gift, all he really wants to do is play with the box.
Oh well. More for me!

Sneak Peek

After several months (due to several setbacks) my wedding video is only one week from completion! Bob, of Bob Franklin Films, sent me a sneak peek. It's only about one minute long, but it looks great and I can't wait to see the rest. Enjoy!

Return of the Ex

So my galfriends have been plagued recently by ex-boyfriends. The exes send them e-mails out of the blue, they call to say they still love them, they call to say they never want to speak to them again, they run up behind them at marathons and try to chat... exes everywhere. One of the nice things about getting married, changing my phone number and moving to a new state is that my exes have a hard time finding me.

But after all the ex talk over the last couple of days, I had a dream last night in which I was still dating an ex, and the only thing I could think of was "Crap! How did I get to be dating this guy again? This sucks!" Then I asked him how many times I had to break up with him to make it stick. Which kinda of reveals how well I handle the delicate task of letting a guy down easy. He was very surprised, since in dream world we had never broken up. But I remember breaking up. In the real world. Over chinese food and fortune cookies. His cookie said "Love first and wait for love in return." And I told him I didn't love him anymore. Subtlety is not my strong suit.

I hope you are doing well, Mr. Ex. Thanks for not popping up years later in real life to tell me you still love or hate me. And I'm glad to know that the only person less likely to be running a marathon than me is you.

Kids in the Court

Yesterday I was a volunteer juror for Kids in the Court, a nifty little program that HLS sponsors. Law students go to local elementary schools and teach 8th graders a little about the law, and then help them put together a mock trial. At the end of the semester, the different classes have a mini-trial, and a side "wins" the trial. I was a teacher for it last year, but was too swamped this year. So I agreed to be a juror.

In file the super-serious 8th graders, followed by the super-giggly 8th graders. Some are wearing their sunday best, and everyone has on a tie. Even most of the girls. Very Avril Lavigne. It seems one boy borrowed all of his dad's ties and distributed them to his classmates. Anyway, the case is about free speech in high school, but is so lopsided that if the plaintiffs had only bothered to show up they would have won. But we watched both sides examine witnesses and giggle their way through an hour long trial. There were two baseless objections, but the kids objected like they meant it. And that's what counts.

Anyway, we jurors left to "deliberate" and quickly agree that the plaintiff side has the winning argument. And by argument we mean raw facts. So to waste a little time (we don't want it to look like a landslide) we start talking about how unfair it is that the case was so lopsided and that whoever runs the program should have evened out the facts a bit. Then we return and deli ever our verdict. One side cheers, the other side calls the whole process "lame", the usual. Then the teacher of the classes (the social studies teacher, I think) stands and says (in an incredibly condescending way), "well, the plaintiffs might have officially won, but I think it's clear that the respondents did the better job here today. You can't always trust a jury." Cue in-fighting by the students and general umbrage in the juror box. We jurors are dismissed and file out. As we leave, the teacher pulls us aside outside and says, "the losing side had a lot of special needs students in it. I hope this verdict hasn't crushed them too badly..." Then she sighed dramatically and swept away back into the classroom. We all stood there and stared at each other. Guilt trip to the neutral jury aside, WHY DIDN'T THEY GIVE THE EASY WIN TO THE SPECIAL NEEDS STUDENTS?!?! I mean come on. If you are worried about their self-esteem, give them the winning side. Why set them up with an impossible side to defend and then blame the jury?

And by the way, the so-called special needs kids did just as well as the others. I couldn't tell any sort of difference in their preparation, presentation or attention. They just had an uphill battle from go. Perhaps the teacher shouldn't constantly remind them that they aren't on equal footing with everyone else. I bet that would do wonders for the ole' self-esteem.

Blood Drive Nazi

It's blood drive time again.

I have one of those rare blood types, and I have never lived in Africa and I have not had sex with a man who's had sex with a man since 1977, so I am permanently on the Red Cross's Most Wanted List. Every 56.5 days they call (yes! call me! at home!) and want me to donate. I'm on a first name basis with all of the nurses. I have a membership card. To the Red Cross. Oh yeah.

Usually, I have fine experiences with the Red Cross. I come in, I fill out the paperwork, I re-read the notice of all the reasons one could not give blood (remind me to google a few new diseases later so my father can diagnose my mother with one (no one knows why he insists on mom having failing health, but he does)), and I am called at or near my appointment time. But last time, something went wrong. I agreed to give blood at a high school.

It was a rookie mistake. See, high schools are just chock-full of 17 and 18 year olds who have also not lived in Africa and haven't received brain grafts before 1987, and who are willing to donate an hour of class time to give blood. So when I arrived a few minutes before my appointment time, I was met with a swarm of students. Students without appointments. Students who were being taken before people with appointments because they couldn't keep students out of class for three hours. But they could keep ME there for three hours, and keep me there they did. I considered leaving, but they had already scanned my membership card, which meant they were on notice that I was a rare type and were not to let me leave without donating under any circumstance. The nurse kept telling me ten more minutes every 15 minutes. So with a bumper crop of students ahead of me, and a nurse guarding the door, I learned my lesson and learned it good: never, NEVER agree to give blood at a high school.

So when the Red Cross called me last week to ask if I was planning to come in, I asked for the first appointment in the morning. Then I arrived 30 minutes before it. I helped a couple of nurses finish setting up and plopped myself down on the cot. I assure you, if ANYONE was giving blood that day, it was going to be me. First. And on my terms. I am the blood drive nazi. I was drained and out the door in 45 minutes flat. And besides the nurse getting a little carried away with the iodine, it was a model donating experience.

Am I ashamed of my guerrilla tactics? Nope. The squeaky wheel and the oil and all that.

Maybe she's born with it

Face it, we all have an addiction. Some women can't get out of the shoe aisle. Some can't get out of the gadget aisle. Some can't get out of the home and garden aisle(s)/store/complex. I used to not be able to get out of the stationary aisle. Just thinking about it makes me smile- that beautiful aisle of legal pads and crisp stationary, or all those pens and highlighters... I could spend forever in there. Sadly, using a laptop for everything has made my ability to justify my love of the paper aisle obsolete. So I needed something new at which to cast longing glances.

Forget maybe, it is Maybelline. Ever since the sis got me hooked on their 16-hour long-lasting super awesome lipstick, I have become a Maybelline junkie. Yesterday, Patto and I were out and about running errands, and my Target gift cards (from my birthday) were burning a hole in my wallet, so we went in to see if we "needed" anything in Target. And in 3 seconds flat, I discovered I "needed" the Maybelline aisle. First, I needed a slightly darker shade of the lipstick I bought in March, for evenings (my current shade is perfect for the day, but what about dinner? WHAT ABOUT DINNER?!?!). Then I realized I needed a more dramatic color for parties/dates/girls' night on the town. Check and check. Then I noticed a gorgeous eye shadow palette in the brown/gold family, and as it so happens, I do not have a palette in the gold/brown family. And gold is the new black! So I snapped it up, too. Then, right before we almost made it out of the aisle, I noticed a matching nail polish. It is IMPOSSIBLE to find a good matching nail polish in the brown/gold family... or at least that's what I told Patrick as I hugged my spoils to my chest and sighed contentedly.

Luckily for me, the only thing stronger that my addictive personality is my tight fist when it comes to money. If I hadn't been holding a gift card, you can bet I would have stopped with only the darker shade of my daytime lipstick. The rest would have to go on layaway.

La Directora

Almost as soon as one Parody ends, the planning for a new one begins. As a group, the Harvard Law Drama Society elects the two Parody producers, and the Producers select the Director, and then Producer/Director team selects the writing corps, the choreographers, the set designer, the music director, the stage manager.... you get the idea.

Anyway, last week the Drama Society elected the Producers, and this week the Producers selected the Director: ME! I am beyond excited. I have done a little directing before- a production in high school and one in college, but this will be my first production with a budet, and paying sponsers, and advertisements, and a cast of more than 40 actors. WaaaaaHoooooo! I can't wait to get started. Which is good, because today I am picking the Head Writer for the Parody, and Tuesday the choreo and music director.

Finally

It is set to hit 70 degrees on Sunday. 70 degrees! I haven't seen 70 degrees in 7.5 months. Awesome. It seems we have decided to skip spring and jump straight to summer. Of course, Boston weather has a habit of changing its mind, so I don't want to speak too soon. It could suddenly snow 3 inches, like it did two weeks ago.

So boobert has this nifty new Visitor Map thing on her blog which puts a little dot on the map everytime someone new visits. Very cool. Perhaps I'll throw one up and see what happens. Of course, it might get a little lonely with only her and my mom (hi mom!) checking on me. But we'll see. She has been attracting talent from Spain these days. Maybe fellow bloggeritos have their eye on me, too.

Well a girl can dream.

The ever-handsome Patto and I are going to see Hot Fuzz tonight with a couple of law school buddies. I'll let you know. It's supposed to be hysterical, but they said that about Shaun of the Dead, too, and I wasn't impressed. A trivia fact: Shaun of the Dead was the first movie Patto and I ever saw together. Patto said he knew it was love when I sat through the entire movie without complaining, and agreed to go out with him again afterwards. Apparently long-suffering is quite the virtue on Patto's list.

And given his obsession with video games, I bet I know why.

Parody

Oy. The last six weeks have been spent rehearsing for the annual law school Parody. The Parody is what it sounds like: an over-the-top song and dance show that pokes fun at Harvard and high-profile events in general. This year, the Parody theme is "The Model Penal DaVinci Code." It follows a law student who discovers a murdered law professor and goes on a quest to uncover a secret so secret that certain law students would kill to keep the secret from getting out, lest it destroy Harvard Law. Along the way, the Parody pokes fun at the debacle that is MyPlan, the online registration system that was introduced last year; a few high-profile students, faculty, and political figures; and manages to insinuate at least once a scene that Yale Law produces homosexuals. Good times for all.

It has been an exhausting and rather abusive process, actually. I have a massive bruise on my back from rolling around on the stage, bruises on both knees from dropping to my knees on stage, and a gimpy wrist that hurts anytime I try to do a twisting motion. Which of course I try to do every 3 minutes. And during the show. Constantly. Oh, but the show is fuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnny. Really funny. So tomorrow night, on opening night, I will forget that I have spent 4-5 hours every night for the last 6 weeks doing impossible dances and learning ridiculous lyrics and slamming my body onto the plywood and growing tired of my colleagues in preparation for this moment, and just let the spotlight and applause wash over me. Oh yes, it will be worth it. Because when I give my first line and the audience laughs- that full, appreciative laugh that comedians live and die for, I will forget that twisting my wrist hurts and I will twist! How I will twist for you, my beautiful audience! And if I have to soak in the tub for an hour that I can't spare with muscle relaxing salts just so I can move the day after, I will do it. For you!

Darn it, there's that twisting motion again.

2/17/07

And then she came back.

And between then and now there was Thanksgiving, and Finals, and Christmas and New Years, and Winter term and Finals for THAT and a weekend trip to freezing New Hampshire to ski in -20 degree weather and the start of a new Spring semester.

And she was busy and she was laughing and she was sad and she was living, but she regretted the months she let pass without so much as a word.

And then, one day, she came back.

It's Baaaaaaaack!

Five years ago, I had a ganglion cyst removed from my left wrist. My sister can tell you fun stories about how she found me hopped up on Hydrocodines after the surgery, angerly weeping and trying to find someone to cover my work shift at the front desk of my residence hall, since I was only conscious an hour or two a day. I'm pretty sure she is responsible for the padlock that was temporarily installed on the outside of my dorm room. Anyway, I think the cyst is back.

My left wrist has begun to ache again in the exact way it ached before. And, more telling, a small knot has developed right under the scar. At least the doc will know right where to cut this time, if it turns out it IS another cyst and needs to be removed. The downside to this is that I really don't want to keep having cysts removed from the same spot every 5 or so years.

But, every the optimist, I hear hydrocodines go for like $10 a pop on the street. At least I can offset my copay with cash from the excess pills I'll get.

PS- for those of you who check out the common treatments of ganglion cysts, please note that if my doctor suggests whacking it with a heavy book, I will gather up my hospital gown and march out. If I wanted to be beaten over medical conditions I would try haggling with my HMO.

We never said we were exclusive...

I've been caught red-handed in the arms of another firm.

Last summer, I worked for a wonderful firm that I really liked. The only trouble is that this firm is in Boston, and the fearless Patto and I have decided we want to go to Chicago. Upon my return from the windy city last week, I have been doing some intense comparisons and have decided upon the New Firm for me. And now for the awkward task of breaking up with my Old Firm.

Last night, Old Firm Boston invited me and the other Harvard students they are recruiting for next summer to cocktails and dinner. I popped in for cocktails and was chatting with the hiring partner, a truly great guy whom I wish I could move to Chicago with us. He knows my heart has been wandering as of late, and quickly put me in touch with Old Firm Chicago Office, hoping to at least keep me in the family. Alas, I have decided that New Firm has better opportunities for me, but I haven't quite found a way to break it off with Old Firm.

Hiring Partner asks me about the job hunt in Chicago. I tell him it's going very well. He asks if I have heard from Old Firm Chicago. I say not yet. Suddenly, my phone rings. I glance at it, laugh, and say "there's a Chicago number now." "Answer it!" he cries, "It might be Old Firm Chicago!" So I answer it. It's New Firm, checking the spelling of my new last name so they can send me a "thanks for choosing us!" fruit basket.

Talk about awkward. We go through the same old song and dance- it's not you, it's me, can we still be friends, I'm at a different point in my life right now, you've changed, I've changed, nothing will ever change, don't cry, you'll find another student soon, you're a great firm, you'll make someone else very happy...

I think I will still go back and put in a cameo appearance at Old Firm Boston at the end of the summer. They like that sort of thing, makes them think they can still win you back, maybe you'll be sorry you ever left. Maybe you'll walk in the door and say, "God you're beautiful."

It's what every firm wants to hear.

Wewease the secwet weapon!!!

Ahhh, callbacks. I have reached the part of the interview season where my firmie friends fly me out to their firm to meet 6 or 7 attorneys and find out if we are a good personality fit for each other. If OCI was like speed dating, this is the like the third date. To quote a friend- who was actually speaking of the callback process- "we aren't ready to sleep together, but I might consider getting handsy on the couch after a glass of wine."

This week I am in Chicago, looking at about 5 firms. Last week I was in another city, which shall remain regionless, when I encountered the following: "Wewease the secwet weapon!!!" Ok, no one I was talking to at the firm actually said that, but they might as well have. One of the women who worked in the department I want had an accent/speech impediment/bizarre vocal tic that made her sound like Gussie Mausheimer from An American Tale. Do you know how difficult it is to ask intelligent questions and get a good sense of what a firm has to offer when you are humming "There are no cats in America?" Role play with a friend. You'll see what I mean.

Must... find... job....

I haven't mentioned that the past three weeks have been spent interviewing for my summer job, and, just to pile on the pressure, THE NEXT TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE!!!! See, the place you work after your second year of law school is most likely the place you will go after you graduate. Most firms don't even interview third year students, because they want 2nd years to spend a summer with them so they can make them permanent offers and retain them forever and ever amen. Everyone is well aware of this, so the summer job hunt at Harvard is a giant production. That starts before you leave for the summer at the end of your 1L year. Firms PAY MONEY to come to Harvard and have 20 min initial interviews with students in Sept. If they like them and have room for them, they ask them back to their offices for callback interviews, a four-hour interviewing extravaganza. Callbacks are nice. They fly you out to their office, put you up in a nice hotel, and reimburse all of your expenses. Usually they take you to lunch or dinner (or both) while you are in town.

To accomodate this process, Harvard cancels school for a week so that we don't miss anything while we are flying all over the country interviewing with the firms we want. It really is a little ridiculous. The office of career services is committed to maintaining their 100% employment upon graduation rate, so they really hype up the second summer and the importance of locking down your future 30 seconds into your second year. Meanwhile, the office of public interest, concerned that everyone will be pushed into firms and not into legal aid or government work, starts a counter-campaign. Their slogans go a little like this:

"Attention 2L's! Do not feel pressured to do OCI (on campus interviewing) and work at a firm this summer. Not everyone is cut out for firm work. Last year, .00000043% of graduating students went into a very fulfilling career in public interest work! And Harvard pays back your $40,958,720,495,872,094,857 dollar loans if you work below the poverty line (which is $50K at Harvard), so don't be sucked into the high-paying, lunch-buying, luxury-hotel-accomodating hype! You have another choice!"

I have one friend who is not interviewing with firms. She has never wanted to work at a firm, so I say good for her. I have always wanted to work at a firm, so I am undaunted by the public interest counter-campaign. Apparently, so are 99% of my classmates.

I have callbacks in two cities, as Patto and I haven't decided where to live after graduation. So for the next two weeks, I will be zipping around Atlanta and Chicago, talking to about 8 firms. I wonder if firms will reimburse my dry cleaning expenses....

Garcon, I'll have the PB&J

So I know I'm all over the place this week (it comes from avoiding my studies with a passion unmatched in these parts), but I just read something in my tax casebook that bears sharing. And trust me, there are not many passages in my tax casebook that fit that description.

The subject matter is business meal deductions. Here ya go: "Suppose a theatrical agent takes his clients out to lunch at the expensive restaurants that the clients demand. Of course he can deduct the expense of their meals, from hich he derives no pleasure or sustenance, but can he also deduct the expense of his own? He can, because he cannot eat more cheaply; he cannot munch surreptitiously on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich brought from home while his client is wolfing down tournedos Rossini followed by the souffle au grand marnier..."

Awesome. Patte, anyone?

Too Cool

This a picture of Caesar, taken by my new MacBook with the "thermal image" effect on. Yes, that is my arm and neck in the background. I am clearly a cold person, with the exception of my delts. clearly.

I have 16 other effects to choose from. Let's see what Caesar looks like in he "comic book" style.

Way to make an impression

Honk if this has happened to you:

You meet someone, maybe at a party or a conference, and have a wonderful, interesting, thought-provoking conversation with them. They are brilliant, they are fun, they are witty-- they think you are brilliant and fun and witty. You think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

Then you see them the next day, and they smile and wave, and you smile and wave too! And then you realize they were waving at the person behind you, and they didn't even see you. But they see you now, because you are smiling and waving like an idiot and... they can't place you. They tilt their head and furrow their brow as they pass, unable to remember why you look familiar, if indeed you even do.

Ego. Bruised.

Luckily for me, right after this true-story, a guy passed me and smiled and waved! And I had no idea who he was. But I smiled and waved back, and even tossed in a "hey" as I passed. I didn't want him to know the difference, even if I was "heying" at the guy behind him...

Life is... cyclical.

RIP Compaq, Helloooooo Mac

My PC has crashed for the last time. You see, the part of the computer brain that receives signals about the power source seized, and it stopped recognizing that it was receving power from either the battery or the adapter. It has done this twice before. This time it looked like it might be time to make out a will and call the family. Computer experts agreed to fix it for anywhere from $300 to $more than its worth, so Patto and I decided to scrap it and get a new computer. And I wanted a Mac. So a cute little mac I've got.

Now, I am not a paid spokeswoman for Apple, but I love my new MacBook. It has a built in camera so I can video-conference, it does all the nifty creative things I want to do but doesn't do all of the things I will never do, so I don't feel bad about having paid for them. It even has a magnetic power cord, so that if someone trips over it, it disconnects rather than pulling my laptop into the floor and mangling it. Heck, even if it did mangle it, my warranty covers accidental damage too.

Now maybe I'll get around to doing the research I've been putting off because I didn't have a laptop and I don't like sitting at Patto's desktop. Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe I'll take more nifty, distorted pics.

Toes and the sadness that is IRRAR

I take offence to the freakishly long ape-toes comment. I think people with... advanced toe growth should be celebrated and admired for their toe resourcefullness, not mocked and jeered and commented about in their sister's blogs. I think this is a common case of toe jealousy, as we all know long toes rule.

Now that we are all a little more educated, I would like to explore a REAL disability, the inability to reconcile one's reading assignments with reality (IRRAR). Many Harvard Law professors suffer from this terrible and deabilitating disease, and continuously assign 100 pages or so of reading per night, though they can only humanly cover 15 pages or so in class. Therefore, at approximately 5 weeks into the semester, the professor is on page 100, but expects you to have read through page 436 in the text. Knowing you could be called on to answer in-depth questions about 300 pages of text is not comforting. By the time November rolls around, I expect I will be called on and will be responsible for whatever the professor actually covers that day, plus the 900 pages he somehow thought he would get to, and will on that day decide to jump ahead 500 pages in an effort to "get caught up." Sigh.

If you think your professor suffers from IRRAR, ask him or her this simple hypothetical (they love hypotheticals): "Train A leaves Professorville traveling at 5 mph. Train B leaves Studentville traveling at 300 mph. At what point do they meet?" If your professor answers with anything other than "They don't! The Studentville train must stop!" s/he probably suffers from IRRAR. Seek professional help immediately.

Hello Change!

Wow, what a busy 3 months I have had. I started (and finished) a new job, I got married, we moved into a new apt, and we got a new kitten. I have just over a week until my second year of school starts. So because so much has happened since I last wrote, I will give you the super short version of each event:

Job: Fantastic. I received an offer to return to the firm next summer, I have a couple of partners who want to be my reference for the job hunt next year, and it seems I might actually be good at the whole lawyer thing. I am interested in checking out the Chicago office of the same firm (Patto's new favorite city for us to go to after graduation. The Windy City is now barely beating out Atlanta- which had been his choice for the last few months. I'll check out both).

Wedding: Exhausting but lovely. The highlights: Patrick tearing up during the ceremony, pre-wedding massage, dancing all night. The lowlights: broken A/C, pushy photographer. All in all I think everyone had a good time. I did. We went to Aruba for the honeymoon and had an amazing time. It's beautiful and it was great to get to recharge our batteries.

New apt: super old house closer to school. 12-14 ft ceilings, hardwood floors, crooked door frames, 50% larger than the old one. It's got character. We like it a lot. We tried to burn it down the first night (another post), but other than that, it's great so far. We have done some home improvement, like painting and changing out some light fixtures, and it's coming together.

New kitten: Caesar. And he deserves the name. He thinks he is in charge. Tobey finally tolerates him, despite a few run-ins. I caught them napping together the other day, although Caesar prefers to be laying in your way for his naps. I'll get a pic of him on here soon. I can't wait until he can be neutered and have his claws out. We are putting those little soft claws on him right now, which is helping, but he seems to chew them off very quickly. We just got a new surround sound system, and if Caesar sharpens his claws on the speakers, Patrick will kill him. That would be unfortunate.

But understandable.

Let's Make A Deal

So I know I owe you guys posts on other things, but I want to take a minute to talk about the counter-intuitive mathmatical phenomenon that my friends and I have been playing around with in our heads for the past couple of days. You are probably already familiar with the set-up: it was used famously by Monty Hall on the old "Let's Make a Deal" show. For those of you who didn't grow up with Nick at Night, here's the premise: A lucky contestant gets to pick among three closed doors, behind one of which is a car, and behind the other two are goats (or some equally undesirable "prize"). The contestant picks a door. Monty Hall opens one of the un-picked doors to reveal a goat. The audience cheers. Now the contestant is given a choice- do they want to switch doors? Now, most people will reason that nothing is gained by switching doors, after all, they have a 50/50 chance of getting the car. But here's the kicker and the mathmatical head-scratcher: they are actually twice as likely to get the car if they switch doors!

No, seriously. You will not want to believe this, because basic logic tells you if you are down to two doors to pick between, one of which has a car, you have a 50% chance of getting the car no matter what. But you are wrong. And I was wrong. And it took me a half dozen hand-drawn diagrams and articles to figure it out. And even now, I don't like it. But it's true. Here's the skinny:

Originally, you have a 1/3 chance of getting the right door. Which means if the car is placed randomly and you choose randomly, you will only choose correctly 33% of the time. When a non-car door is opened, your odds don't improve- there is still a 66% chance that the door you selected is a goat. So 66% of the time, it makes more sense to switch doors. Only 33% of the time does it make sense to stay with your original choice. Thus, your odds really are twice as good if you switch. Make sense? Don't worry if it doesn't at first, a bunch of us Hah-vahd kids sat around and drew it and did mock trials before we would believe it either. But if you want, try it out on your spouse/co-workers/kids: Do it several times (at least 9). See if it doesn't come out this way.

An important caveat: This only works because Monty Hall knows what door the car is behind, so of course he isn't going to open that door, even though you didn't select it originally. If it was a random opening, and the car was not revealed behind an un-picked door, your odds are 50-50. But because Monty can control which door is opened, you are twice as likely to win if you switch. Trust me on this one. It won't work for you all of the time (after all, you might have selected the right door immediately), but hey, doubling your chances can't hurt you.

I knew this would happen

I went in to CVS this morning to pick up a birthday card for a classmate, and I came out with 7 cards and a king-sized kit kat bar. Damn card organizer. I blame it. (With the exception of the kit kat bar. That is not the card organizers fault. That is my torts class' fault). Anyway, I was thinking to myself, as I waffled between two cards for my friend, "hey- I could get both, and put whichever one I don't use in my card organizer for next time!" And it was all downhill from there. I found a couple cards that my sister would love, good ones for people's upcoming birthdays... I doubled my amount of unused cards that need to be organized in one day. I am a marketers dream.

On my way to class moments later, I was passed by a guy walking a huge doberman pinsher on one side and a minuature pinsher (or minsher pinsher as I call them) on the other. It was like Dr. Evil and Mini-Me. I tried not to laugh as I passed this guy (after all, he was walking two dobermans), but I was thinking that he looked ridiculous with these two dogs. Almost as ridiculous as I looked with 7 cards and a kit kat bar.

Good Morning, Starshine

I know I've been missing for a while, and my loyal fan (hi Mel!) has probably been wondering where I've been. To celebrate my return, I thought I would write a (hopefully) non-law school post. Maybe it will be good enough to get me linked to my sister's blog.

So mom got me this Hallmark card organizer to help separate the piles of cards she seems to think I have laying around the house. It's very nice, and almost as worthless as extremely expensive receipe box she got me last Christmas. It turns out that I only have about 5 unused cards, and the organizer came with 3 of those. It makes me want to acquire cards so that they can be organized. This is how Hallmark gets you. They convince you that you will be considered the most put-together and thoughtful person on the block because you always remember every little occasion (have you seen those commercials? Advertisting brilliance) and then shame you into buying unneccessary cards because your organizer sits empty. It reminds me of my favorite advertising ploy: create a problem and then offer a product to fix it. No one even knew they were sufferers until you came along and told them how to get better. Genious.

My sweet little Tobey (see above, isn't she cute?) has been a model litter box user ever since we moved to MA. It makes me wonder what it was about my old apartment/roommates/city that made her want to wet the bed. Still, she wouldn't be Tobey if she hadn't developed a new quirk in the mean time. Tobey has decided, after a year and a half of never doing this, to become my morning alarm clock. Apparently she has finally learned that I get up at approx. 6:00 am every day. She has made it her mission in life to be sure that I don't sleep in by howling the howl of a dying animal in my face at 5:58. If I hide my face from her, she chews on my hair. It's hard to be angry at such a thoughtful kitty, although I manage to do it every morning at 5:58am. As annoying as this is on work days, it is even more annoying on the weekends, because Tobey becomes more and more concerned that I am sleeping in as time passes on a Saturday morning. She begins wailing promptly at 5:58. I can usually calm her down by saying good morning and rubbing her until she lays down again. We sleep peacefully until her snooze alarm goes off at 6:18. She wails. I rub. At 7:00 she bites my hair and puts her wet nose on my eyelid. I get up and go to the bathroom. I check her food bowl to be sure this isn't a cry for help (it never is). We go back to bed. At 7:30 she stands on my chest and meows stinky cat food breath in my nostrils. I surrender and get up.

I can't get her to stop. I've tried ignoring her, I've tried tossing her off the bed. I've tried locking her out of the room (this results in wailing, pushing against the door and putting her little white-toed paws under the door as if reaching for me. It breaks my heart every time). I've tried rubbing her. I've tried holding her (she doesn't like that, she wants me to get up, not her to lay down). Basically, I have tried everything except the Patrick method, which consists of holding her up in the air until she squirms enough to fall back onto the bed and run away. I think this is mean. I try to tell him so, but he invariably falls back asleep before I can get in a good chastisement. I think he plans that.

All in all, she is really turned out to be a good cat. She loves to play, has never coughed up a hairball on the carpet, uses her litterbox and is kind to visitors. Now if only I could convince her that I have an alarm clock; what I need is a napping companion.

Still kicking

This place eats your life. But I still love it.

Things at Harvard are going well so far. I've had my first semester exams, though I don't know my grades yet. The second semester feels a little less stressful already, although I probably should relax or let my guard down just yet. Things tend to jump out at you from behind the bushes here.

I will be working this summer at a firm in Boston, and I'm ready to get started already. I will be working in the corporate department, focusing on transactions. Hooray for a real, non-stop-gap job!

I'm getting married in 6 months. This is going to be a pretty eventful year.

See? SEE?!?!

I was the person called on in Property the day after that huge law school party they had Thursday night. I stayed in and did my reading. I will be thankful forever. The whole thing went just fine- I was okay, not brilliant, not stupid. Everyone said later that I didn't seem nervous at all- but they couldn't see my hands shaking. I was petrified. And then it was over, and so was my second week of law school.

Last night Patrick and I went out for drinks with a couple of my friends from law school and some of their significant others. I had a good time, drank one too many Long Island Iced Teas, (for a total of three, I'm such a light weight) and all in all felt redeemed for having to miss out on all the fun during the week. I think I'm finding my niche at school- I'm at least finding the three or four people that I'm comfortable around.

I started school and now I have no life

So, it turns out that the reason everyone is so agog that I go to Harvard Law is that they didn't know I truly desired to have any semblance of a normal life sucked out of me by the end of the first week. It's a strange desire. I think most people truly only want to do an honest day's work for an honest day's pay and have enough to be comfortable and happy but not so much as to fear that people are only being nice to them because they want to hold their family members for ransom later. But not me. Oh no- I want to read very complex and technical (and often contradicting) material for 5 or 6 hours a day, be continually tripped up by trick questions and ridiculous hypotheticals in class, and spend any remaining hours discussing policy with similarly situated people until my brain hurts- all in preparation of one 6-8 hour final that determines my grade for the semester. It's tough to keep up here. I guess that's the point.

Still, I feel as though I am doing well. By the end of the day I understand what is going on (except in Civil Procedure, but no one knows what is going on in there), and I know how to apply what I know to new situations. Sometimes the work is very interesting. Sometimes it is very boring, and a lot of the time it is very long, but this is what I wanted to do and for the most part I am happy. Except...

Harvard has this annoying habit of constantly advertising a million fun things to do every night of the work week, though they must know there is no way we can go to their functions and still get our reading done. They have been in business for hundreds of years. They must know they are asking too much for us to have outside lives, and I sometimes think they are teasing us. "Harvard Law presents Free Food and Drinks and Happiness! It will be really fun! You should come out! Yay Law School!" My classmates test each other out to see if anyone is going. One or two people are. The rest of us are jealous and suspicious. "Have you finished your reading for Property?" we ask incredulously. They haven't. They are going anyway. We chalk it up to personal choice, but we know we are going home to hover our our texts with the mighty highlighter while they go out and party. And we are bitter. But the simple fact of the matter is that someone is going to be called on tomorrow, and no one wants to be the person who didn't do their reading and is tortured in front of the class.

It is a profound form of pain you just don't understand until you experience it firsthand.

The RMV

So Patto and I went to get our new driver's licenses this week, and the RMV (thats 'registry of motor vehicles' for those of you who grew up in DMV-land like I did) was surprisingly efficient. Amazingly surprisingly efficient. In fact, we registered the car, got our DLs, and registered to vote in under 30 min. You couldn't get a DMV officer to look at you in less than 30 min in TN.

When you register to vote in good ole MA, they ask you what party with whom you wish to be affiliated, if any. As I didn't want to incur prejudice, I marked "no affiliation at this time." When the counter officer finished all of my paperwork, he handed me back my temporary voting card (in case I needed to run out and vote before they could mail me the hard copy) and it was marked "Democratic Party."
"Wait a minute," says I, "I marked 'no affiliation,' not 'Democratic Party."
"Oops," replies stunningly-efficient though now-in-cahoots-with-the-Dems counter guy, "let me get that fixed."
"Yeah," I said, handing back my temporary card, "My pap-paw warned me about you guys: 'Welcome to Massachusetts, you're a Democrat now'."

All in all, a fine day to become actual residents of a new state. It is starting to sink in that this isn't some vacation- what with the MA plates on the car and me with my snazzy subway pass. By the time Patrick has been at work for a week I think he'll feel like he's been here forever. Routine has a comforting way of folding you in, ya know?

Blending lives

I always heard that when two people who have lived independenly move in together, they have an excess of towels and silverware and 9 x 13 cassarole dishes. Not so with Patrick and I. We have an excess of books. Books upon books upon books. 7 boxes of books. A couple of exerpts from finally getting around to unpacking them all:

Him: Where do you want to put philosophers?
Me: Ancient or modern?
Him: 17th centrury French.
Me: Hmmm... Just put him with my French philosophers for now.

Me: Do you have The Good Citizen? Wait, don't answer that. Of course you do. Yours or mine?
Him: What edition is yours?
Me: Third, revised with intro by Eduardo Medieta.
Him: Ha, Mine is 250th anniversary edition with content notes by Leienne.
Me: Fine, we'll keep your Citizen, but I want a reverse ruling on my Plato- I've marked it up the way I like it and I dont want to start over with another.
Him: Fine. Where do you want to put biographies?

You get the idea. I knew that Patrick and I were dorks, albeit high-functioning ones, but I didn't think that would be how we spent a Saturday morning. We only had three cups between the two of us, but have filled three bookshelves. And that was after we weeded out copies we were going to take to the book exchange. As soon as we find one, that is.

Holy Smoley I live in Boston

I moved to Boston last week and into a great little apt. It's still sinking in that this my new home, and not some vacation. I guess it won't really hit me until I start paying the bills for this place. I have already noticed that a BigMac meal is almost $5 around here. Crazy northerners. Anyway, now the dear kitty Tobey (who, by the way, has not had an accident since I moved to Boston), the ever-faithful Patrick and I live in MA. We are still getting used to where we paahk, and the best way to get to Haahvaahd, but so far we are enjoying the adventure.

Today, Patrick and I decided to set up new checking and savings accounts since AmSouth doesn't really exist above VA. We planned to get our accounts and then go to the DMV for new licenses. Well, silly me thought that the bank would be a breeze and then we would really get to test our patience at the DMV. That is, after all, how God ordained it. But, heathen town that this is, we spent 2 hours at the bank. Let me clairly. The bank. And the real kicker was, we were the only ones there. As in first in line. As in, the first available person could help us. But for 30 min, there was no such available person. Just a couple of tellers gossiping about another teller and the lobby greeter and us. Finally, the lobby greeter directs us to a desk and begins the process of opening our new accounts. This woman had such a thick Asian accent that we had to ask her to repeat herself two or three times, and in a couple of instances, write down what she was saying. Another fun aspect was that she couldn't type. She just finger-pecked the keys, and said every letter out loud as she went. As in, "ok, you want a c-h-e-c-k-i-n-g account. You said regular, right? R-e-g-u-l-a-r. " Now, I have a 26 letter name. Do you know how long it takes to finger peck 26 letters out loud? And I couldn't even be sure those were the correct letters she was saying. You know its bad when you have trouble identifying your own name. After 2 hours, I was ready to hang myself. Patrick and I agreed to save the DMV for tomorrow and go home to regroup.

More adventure to follow tomorrow when I obtain my very first non-TN license. I have to provide them with everything but a letter of recommendation to get it. Seriously. MA requires something like 6 documents that you have to bring. I think there's a lie-detector test and everything. But of course, John Kerry got his license, so how accurate can the thing be?

Seems no one in this blue state ever finds that funny.

Time and a Half

Saturday morning, and I'm about to head back to the office to finish up some work. I just had a vision of my future, I think. I don't mind so much, because Patrick is in NC for his buddy's wedding, and my saturday morning ritual usually involves getting breakfast and watching cartoons with him. The other reason I don't mind is that it's pure overtime. I may not make too much regularly, but I can really kill it on time and a half.

Tobey's urine is fine, which means she has started to pee on the bed for attention- or because she's just a bad kitty. I prefer to think the former, as she really is quite lovable- though admittedly a bit spastic. The vet recommends we schedule a behavior consult as soon as possible, but the vet only does those in the afternoon when I am at work, or saturdays. She couldn't this saturday (another reason I don't mind popping into work for a few hours), and I am going to Smyrna for Mel's college graduation next saturday. If I can swing it, I'll try leaving work an hour or so early next week and try to do one then. I do want to start training tobes in the way she should go asap, but there's not much I can do about their office hours.

Why is it that offices for things you have to do are only open during your work hours, and fun things and coffee shops are open at all hours? Makes it hard to put in an honest day's work, ya know?

Another question- Why do giant H2 Hummer's have "HUMMER" written across their side as if you wouldn't have been able to figure it out on your own? I was parked next to one at work yesterday, and I thought about sticking a note on it that said, "Ohhh, so THAT'S what kind of car you have. It was hard to tell from over here." You don't see me writing "COLLEGE CAR" on my '92 toyota, right next to where the ride side mirror should be, do you?

The Heat Is On

Tobey has started her anti-litterbox behavior again. I'm going to take her into the vet first thing in the morning tomorrow. Until then, she has to spend time in the vanity and bathroom area. I can't wait until I have my own apt and she can roam around. Then, if she starts messing with one room in particular, I can just shut the door. Sadly, I can't shut her out of my bedroom without blocking her litterbox unless she is put in the bathroom. Poor Tobey. Poor Patrick, really, who is getting so frustrated with me because I hate to punish her, especially before I take her to the vet to be sure her UTI hasn't come back. I'm such a pushover.

Work is insane. I realize that whenever someone asks me how my day was, I always say "crazy," or "hectic," or something. And they always go, "oh, I'm sorry." But I'm not upset by it. I love when things are just a little nuts and stressed. I work so well under pressure. I guess that's why I didn't think the LSAT was a big deal. And you know how when you got up to like level 13 on Tetris on your gameboy (come on, we were kids of the 80's) everything started moving so quickly and the slightest wrong move pushed everything out of control? Yeah, that's when I started playing. Now, don't get me wrong, when things are bad insane, I will happily collect your sympathy. But I like putting in a hard 8+ hours and feeling like I did something that day. Man, I love that italics button.

So I'm leaving home extra early today so I can pick up the two free tickets to the comedy zone and the vocher for free breakfast for my office that I won on the radio Monday. I have never won a radio contest before. Perhaps I can get them to do the breakfast thing on Friday, as that is the technical "months end" when things are most crazy around work. My coworkers would appreciate that most, I think, esp. the ones that dont thrive so much on pressure.

Well, I need to trap Tobey in the bathroom area. She has been laying around enjoying the bed (where she is not allowed to be when Patrick is here, but we already agreed I was a pushover), but now its time to go up for the day. Poor kit.

Moving so fast

Good grief- I went back to work at the mortgage company and the next thing I knew, two months went by. I work about 45 hours a week now, but the work is interesting and I have much to occupy me, so the days literally fly by. I leave for law school in three and a half months.

I am going to Harvard Law School. I have to admit, it sounds just a little foreign coming out of my mouth. I have never been an ivy league kind of girl, but after I got back from Boston last week, I realized I could be. Boy howdy, I could be.

But first I need to stop saying "boy howdy."

Things in life are at this strange balance right now. I feel as though I am moving in slow motion while everything around me moves in fast forward. I think this is why weeks and months go by so quickly and I feel as though I pulled a rip van winkle and slept through most of it. I find that I prefer to take things a little slower and enjoy them, but things are moving too quickly for me to grab on to them. It's like if you took an anvil and tied a rope around it and threw it off a cliff- then after a few seconds of free falling you decided to grab the rope bare-handed. At best you get some nasty rope burns. It would be my luck that I would get snatched over the edge. Bizarre image to explain not being able to slow things down, but it's the only one I've got right now. Stay tuned.

Counter-Offer Sissiness

Well, the firm's counter-offer was not enough to keep me, so I thanked them and politely declined. I have spent the last week coming in early and leaving late to make sure that everything is up to date and perfect before I go. It has occured to me today that Even if I get here at 7:30am again and don't leave until past 6, I won't get everything done by tomorrow. Not that I HAVE to get everything done, or anything, for that matter- but I pride myself on completing things I take on, and I am a perfectionist in the worst way. I feel so sorry for the paralegal to whom this is all going back- it is a full-time job in itself. Still, she is getting paid well for the work, so she may as well do the work. I am not being paid for this on top of my actual job, so I guess I don't feel so sorry for her afterall.

Back to my beloved mortgage company!

2 out of 3 is... Better

Well, it turns out dear Tobey did indeed have a bladder infection. I now force-feed her a tiny white pill every 12 hours to clear the infection up. She seems in high spirits (minus the dirty look I get every time I stuff another pill down her throat) and has used her litter box twice and the tarp once. Beth, the one-stop-cat-wisdom-machine, advised me to ditch the tarp, as if it has retained even the slightest odor of urine, Tobey will think of it as a second box, infection or not. I told Tobey that if she can use her box three times in a row, she can sleep with me at night and not in the bathroom. At five times in a row, I'll let her go into the bedroom when I'm not home. Right now she is at one time in a row. She should be up to 2 by the time I get home from work, and should reach her 3-goal by the time I get back from jujitsu. I predict a kitty in the bed by tonight.

I also had the vet remove Tobey's claws while she was in, and the whole household is feeling better for it. Tobey hasn't been squirted with the water bottle since she came home Saturday, and I can finally remove the scratch barriers I have placed strategically around the apartment. She doesn't seem to mind having her claws out, and actually spends a good deal of time "sharpening" her imaginary claws on my bedspread.

In work news, after I gave my notice on Friday, the paralegal who has been my mentor alerted me that the firm intended to make a counter-offer to keep me. Sweet. They haven't gotten it together yet, but I told her that I was going to accept the mortgage offer at 5pm if I didn't get a better deal. She wrote down a "list of demands" and told me not to agree to anything till she got an official offer from the partners. They now have one hour and 5 minutes to come up with something good.

One Week's Notice

Today I am giving my one week's notice at my firm. It's nothing personal, it's just that I found a job that actually uses some brain power and pays 40% more than what I am currently making. I know you are thinking, "isn't it supposed to be a two week's notice?" But silly you, Tennessee is a "right to hire" state, which is a catchy way of saying I can quit or they can fire me without any reason at all, as long as it wasn't discriminitory in nature. I'm not contractually obligated to give them anything more than the finger as I waltz out the door, but because I would like to retain a reference, I'm going to give them a week and tie up all of my loose ends here, and then turn the whole shebang back over to the paralegal to whom it all belongs.

Yes, I have finally been wooed back to the mortgage company for which I worked as an intern over the summer. They have had an opening in the Auditing department that sounds like a good match for me. Very detailed work, more responsibility-- I get a stack of work to do every morning that I can work on at my own pace, and there's opportunity for overtime if I want it. And did I mention a 40% pay raise? With a bonus structure? And they don't care if I got to NY the last weekend of March? I'm excited.

Now, on to the bittersweet task of turning in my notice letter. I really like the guy who hired me, but I don't think I'll miss this place. I may miss how easy it is from time to time, but I can't handle not thinking for 8 hours every day. I need something to wrap my mind around. Onward and Upward!

On Tarps and Deterrence

I bought an 8' x 10' blue tarp on Tuesday and spread it out over the bed when I left for work Wednesday morning. When I returned, Tobey had peed on the tarp in two places. While the tarp is considerably easier to clean than the sheets, it didn't really serve as a deterrent, like I had hoped. This morning, I was getting ready around the house, and since Tobey was already laying in my bedroom floor, so I went on and shut the door while I was in the kitchen. (I shut my bedroom door when I leave if I am the only one around so that if Tobey does destroy something while I'm gone, it's only in my space and not the common ones. I'm trying to be considerate to my roomies). Anyway, right as I was going to leave I remembered I needed something back in the bedroom. I walked in, and Tobey was laying in the floor, but behold! a fresh urine puddle on the tarp. Good thing I had already spread it out.

So this is the first time she has peed in my room when I'm home, but of course, she didn't know I was home since I shut the door. I still think this is an attention ploy, and not a urinary tract infection. (The UTI is the most common cause of kitties using the bathroom where they are not supposed to). I'm going to take her to the vet either tomorrow or saturday and see what they say. If it is a UTI, then some antibiotics will clear it up and she will be fine. If it's behavioral, at least they can give me some tips on how to changer her behavior. In the mean time, my substitute-Dr. Spock, Beth, says to try putting a small litter box on the bed, and then moving it to the edge of the bed, then off the bed, then into the bathroom... sort of like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. This may work. Then again, Resolve Oder Eliminator might have worked. And the shoebox. Or the tarp. But hey, at least my sheets are clean and dry.

At Wit's End

Tobey peed on my bed again yesterday. Twice, actually. Once while I was at work, and then again when I was at Jujitsu. She peed on my bed while I was away at Georgetown. I have determined that it is an attention ploy. She never does it in front on me or when I am home, only when I have left. I am going to pick up a plastic painter's sheet and start covering my bed when I leave. Today I had to lock her in the bathroom while I'm away at work. I feel terrible for doing it, but I just can't have her peeing on my bed every day. Until I can get that sheet tonight, she'll just have to be in the bathroom when I'm not home.

I feel like I imagine foster parents feel: they adopt an abused child, give him love and attention, and then the kid just flips out on them one day to see what they'll do. Or maybe to test to see if their love is only conditional. Or maybe because he is just so starved for attention that he will take anything he can get. At any rate, that's how I feel with Tobey. I give her love and everything is fine until one day, and then she up and pees on my bed. I clean it up, leave the house, and she does it again. Arrggh.

One thing is for sure, I sleep on the most frequently washed sheets in town.

Georgetown II

Well, I had an amazing time up in Washington. Georgetown was really an impressive school, and gave a great presentation. They also gave me a Georgetown Law baseball cap, a silver thermal mug with their emblam embossed on it, and an exceptionally phallic looking chocolate gavel. Nice intangibles. NYU is going to have to give me an apartment to compete. I'll also accept a large envelope stuffed with cash.

One thing I am going to have to get used to is that law teachers are referred to as "Professor," not "Dr." After undergrad you just get to used to identifying everyone as Dr. This and Dr. That. I must have called half the people I met up there "Dr." Still, I'm sure they'll forgive me if I upgrade their degree a little every now and then.

It occurs to me that I have never given my official law school formula for figuring out where I will attend school. It's a tough decision, and I don't trust myself to just pick without a method. (I'm a very cautious person). So here it is, the Christiansen method of selecting a school!

[(total budget {b} / total scholarship {s}) + (rank {r} x 50)]
------------------------(divided by)-------------------------------------
[1000 + (intangibles x 10)]

The lowest score wins. If no scholarship is offered, s will be 1 and angry marks will be placed beside the computation. Intangibles shall include all things such as location, gut feelings, and free things given away at receptions. Tobey is also permitted to declare an intangible by choosing a school viewbook as her favorite chew toy.

For a real-life example, Notre Dame is ranked (r) 21st, and the total budget (b) for attending is $42,000, and they offered a $20,000 scholarship (s), what is their placement number assuming they can claim two intangibles: they are a Christian school and they get lots of snow?

[(42000/20000) + (21x50)]
-------------------------
1000 + 20

= 1.03

There ya go. Now, Georgetown has not offered me a scholarship (but they wrote today to tell me I was being considered for one), so they are considerably behind. Still, the hunt is young. Notre Dame is the only school to put money where their mouth is. (This explains why they are ahead of guys like Columbia in the official standings, though Columbia is by most accounts the superior school). So things will shift. Stay tuned.

Georgetown

Tomorrow morning I am off to D.C. for my first law school visit. (Technically, I went to Northwestern in Chicago back in December, but since I was also interviewing for admission and only there for 5 hours after the semester had ended, I didn't get to check out classes and ask questions of professors and get a guided tour.) Anyway, Georgetown's Early Admitted Students Reception is Thursday and Friday, and Patrick and I will be there with bells on. Patrick has friends in D.C., so that takes care of housing. Georgetown is decidedly taking care of food, as they are providing dinner and cocktails Thursday night and breakfast and lunch on Friday. I will also take a tour of campus, sit in on a class, get a "taste of the D.C. nightlife," and a couple of other law-school related activities. The attorneys here at work tell me that these receptions are just great, and to try to go to as many as possible. Apparently, these things are designed to wine and dine you, and thus convince you that this particular school is worthy of your precious student loans. I will certainly try to make as many as possible, but I haven't got a ton of money laying around for flights and hotel rooms, so I will have to go about this process strategically.

In thinly related news, I certainly need this break from routine. I am in the process of becoming very angry with a coworker, and it's time to take a weekend away from him. I blame him for the splitting headache I have had all day today. (Well, Tobey gets partial credit for keeping me up all night biting my toes). At any rate, I think I'll go home, draw a bath, take a nap, finish packing and go to bed early so I can greet my first trip to Washington well-rested and energized.

The Terrible Twos

My little girl is two years old, and boy do I feel every bit of it. Well, technically she is just over 5 months old, but according to the people who decide these kinds of things, cats age at a rate of five to six years for every one human year. Thus, what should be my adorable 6 month old is actually my hellacious 2-3 year old. I have never been particularly fond of human children at any age, and if Tobey (the kitty in question) is any indication of what motherhood is like, I stand by my convictions.

It seems that Tobey passed through her cuddly kitten stage about two weeks after I adopted her from an animal shelter. Apparently, all she needed was food, shelter, and love to really bring out the psychotic cat that was buried within. Tobey leaps about, claws unsheathed, literally swinging from one up-right upholstered surface to another by her razor-blade nails. (Think curtains to bed skirt, or pants leg to chair back... She also makes sure to take a swing past anything silk or satin should it dare to show itself in the room). I bought her a scratching post. She ignores the scratching post and scratches the stucco wall.

Besides being able to climb surfaces with her little kitten claws, Tobey likes to play a little game called, "I peed in the corner for no apparent reason. Again." Tobey has a litter box that she uses regularly. From day one, she had no problem adapting to it. There was not an accident for weeks until BAM! one day, she just pees on the carpet, four feet from her litter box. I scolded her firmly but gently, cleaned it up with carpet cleaner, put her in her box and scratched her paws around while lovingly reinforcing her (basic training for box use + a little child psychology). She indicated she understood. After two days of model litter box behavior, she does it again. Same spot. No remorse. I go to my sister for help.

Beth, a veteran mother of twins (chocolate point Siamese cats), waved it off with the air of superiority that all veteran mothers have when we new moms cry for help. "You have to use a cleaner that neutralizes the odors," she explains, "or else kitty can still smell the urine and thinks it's an acceptable potty spot. The same thing happened with Dixon when he was that age..." I buy Resolve Pet Stain and odor Remover (free plug for Resolve!). I thoroughly clean the area. Tobey uses her box. A few nights later, I wake up to the sound of kitty nails on carpet. I walk into the bathroom and there is Tobey, trying to cover up a new urine stain in the exact same cleaned-with-Resolve-Pet-Stain-and-odor-Remover-spot! She looks up guiltily. I admonish her more firmly. It's 3 o'clock in the morning and I don't feel like following the scolding with a hug and reassurance that she is not a bad kitty, but she has done something bad. I do so anyway. I clean the stain with the Resolve. I go back to bed.

A week went by and the corner remained clean. Yesterday morning I was rushing around, getting ready for work, and just as I was about to kiss her goodbye, she runs into the bathroom and pees in the corner. "Why, Tobey?!" I exclaim. "WHY?!" I clean up the spot with the Resolve. I scold Tobey. I am 5 minutes late for work. I go back to Beth. She looks slightly amused. Regaining her professionalism, she waves her hand around again and says "Tobey thinks that is HER spot. You need to put something there." "What if she just chooses somewhere else to make "her spot?" I ask. Beth chuckles. When I return from work that evening, I put a large shoe box over "her spot." She sniffed it and walked away. I went about my business. I did the laundry. I checked the shoe box, no problems so far. I went to Jujitsu. When I returned, the shoe box lay unmolested. No problems. I walked into my bedroom and stopped short. She had peed on my bed.

Beth laughed for a full five minutes. I have yet to see the humor.

Maxing the Mailbox Joy

Yesterday, UVA called to congratulate me on being admitted to their law school. The woman continue on about how the official acceptance letter and offer had been mailed that day and I should expect it in 3 to 10 business days. The letter enclosed covers the most frequently asked questions, but should I have any others do not hesitate to call blah blah blah...

The entire time, I was thinking about how I would have preferred if they had just let me get the letter, and then call 3 to 10 business days later to congratulate me in person and ask if I had any additional questions. Don't they know that I live to open my mailbox each evening after work? I feel a little robbed of the excitement. Now I know that in 3 to 10 business days I'm going to have a letter. What fun is that? You know, Georgetown really did it correctly- they sent me a letter, and then a few days later they sent me an invitation to an admitted students reception, and then a few days after that, they emailed me to see if I had any further questions. Well played, Georgetown. Props to NYU and W&L, too. Way to max out the mailbox excitement.

Today my Jujitsu Sensai (yeah, bet you didn't see that one coming) is in my law firm for depostions. By day, my Sensai is the executive chef for an area hospital. The hospital is being sued because a patient became ill one day and claims it was the food. (I suppose I should say she became more ill; she was in a hospital, after all). He and I happened to be discussing the case last night after practice, and he mentioned he would be downtown for a deposition today. I told him to give me a call if he got free for lunch. Lo and behold, today he walked into my firm. It seems we represent the hospital, and by extension, him. (Thank goodness, I signed an evil lawyer-to-be contract swearing to consume in fire anyone who was not on our side). It's a weird mixing of worlds. I am involved in a ton of different things, but usually they are so diverse that there is no danger of a figure from one showing up in the context of another. Here we have a bizarre exception, and I think we both felt the effects. I've never seen him in a suit, he's never seen me not dripping in sweat. I think we both felt a little a little silly seeing each other play dress-up.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Ha! My beloved mailbox came through for me once again- Washington and Lee offered me admission, and NYU invited me to an admitted students reception. I will be satisfied for at least three days. Only 8 more schools to hear from...

In unrelated news, it amazes me how quickly I have become "old" upon entering this permi-real world. The other night a friend called me at midnight to catch up, and I remember waking up thinking, "Good grief! What TIME is it?! Don't people realize that it's a work night?" And to think I just graduated in early December! It's stunning how quickly an 8-5 job can turn you into your parents. Luckily for me, this "real world" stuff will only last another 6.5 months, and then I will be tucked back where I belong: in school.

Mail-Checkers Anonymous

Hi, my name is S., and it's been 10 days since I got into a law school.

Chorus: "Hi, S!"

I know I shouldn't be such a compulsive mailbox-checker, but God help me, I am. Ever since I got into NYU on December 7, I have been a non-stop mailbox fanatic. I am now officially invited to attend four schools, but I applied to 13. (13 sounds a bit extreme, I know, but if you gain nothing else from me, know that I live for options. One is certainly MY lonliest number).

I wish schools would all send out their acceptance/rejection letters on the same day, so one evening, I would open my mailbox and find it stuffed with letters. Instead, I open my mailbox every day; some days to success, most to nothing. (Note: "Nothing" does not include the amazing coupons I once got to Kentucky Fried Chicken, which turned out to be a misprint, but because they had issued the coupons, they had to give me what they promised. I'm talking 10-pieces with 2 mashed potatos, 2 cole slaws and 6 biscuits for $4.99. I ate like royalty for three days off of one coupon. You should have seen the face of the guy behind the cash register when he rang it all up. But really, that's a post for another time).

It's nearing five and my work day is completing. Only 15 minutes until I am home and able to check the mailbox.

Two Roads Diverged...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
--I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

--Robert Frost