Christmas music on the Pandora station plays over crappy laptop speakers, pajamas in the Law Review Office, outlining until the library closes at 2, and coming up with new and exciting curses for the professors, administration and law school in general.
Oh Holy...Shit. It's a Law School Christmas.
Fall semester brings you the giddy-happy-stress-depression wonder that is a December Finals Season. When you're about to tear your hair out from the end of the semester "God-get-me-out-of-here-I-don't-care-about-Bankruptcy-anymore" syndrome, they send you on Thanksgiving break. A whole week off from law school, to give you time to spend with your loved ones and enjoy Football, parades, and lots o'turkey.
Yeah, about that.
Thanksgiving is for getting serious about studying for finals, and don't let anyone tell you differently. They won't, because half of your class will be in the library, causually chatting with you at the circulation desk either:
1) complaining about how unproductive they've been so far in thinly veiled attempt to scare the shit out of you because "It's only Tuesday and I only have outlines for three out of four classes and I've only done one set of practice questions!" knowing full well you're maybe half-way done with your first outline;
2) complaining about how unproductive they've been, which you could probably judge from your 45 minute Facebook chat about how any motivation has completely disappeared; or
3) Bragging about how prepared to take the exam they are; somehow completely oblivious to how close they are to having you shove your highly-prized E& E up their nose.
We have the right to remain silent. What we lack is the ability.
A word of advice: lie to your families about when you get out for Thanksgiving break. The last thing you need on top of the stress of studying, the psychological warfare waged by those people in your class, and the general crappiness of November is your parents giving you grief about staying up at school when you don't have class and could get your work done at home (no, you can't. trust me). I have lied to my family for the past three years about when I finish for the semester; and though I general condone truthiness, this one will save your life. Or at least that last shred of sanity.
And then, more advice: when you do get home, do not try to pretend you're going to study. Embrace those precious hours of peace when you can drink and eat and gossip with your family and friends.
Because then you go back to school. And then there's no escape.
It's difficult to fully explain to someone who's not experienced the atmosphere of law school final exams. One of the Kates got close: "ever been prison raped?" But it's more than that, it's like being prison raped over two weeks with a bunch of other people and occasionally, they give you nitrus oxide. There's the stress and the mental strain, definitely. But then, there's the slaphappy. The giddiness, the parade of yet-funnier youtube clips, the riding of office chairs...There's the happy discussion of holiday plans, always tempered by a bitter "when I'm finally fucking done with finals" and the stress of Christmas itself.
Oh yeah, Christmas.
I believe that depression rates spike around the holidays not just because of all of the money, cleaning, shopping, and listening to your grandmother talk you through her colonoscopy; but because there's so much pressure to be in a good mood and overflowing with the Christmas spirt and to have yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
And I love Christmas. Just ask Finn. It's all over our apartment.
But finals does this thing where it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, you're excited, but you're stressed and grumpy. And guilty for being stressed and grumpy around Christmas. And you want to Christmas shop. But you don't have time. And you're pissed that you're going to have to push your shopping until the last minute, thereby making you more stressed. And you're excited to hear from your friends who are in town visiting their parents. But if you have to explain why you're not home yet one more time you'll explode.
Get the picture?
Then there's that magical moment when you walk out of your last final and directly to the liquor store. Savor that moment. I love that moment. It's like Christmas morning. But with more nicotine and vodka.
It was a good Christmas. For the first time in recent memory, I wasn't clawing the walls after two days in my hometown. I saw a lot of people, had a lot of fun and helped my little sister pick out her wedding dress.
And, I find myself surprisingly optimistic about the coming year. But, as the song goes, there's reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last.
It'll get off to a good start. Nikki and V are setting me loose in Sin City. On New Year's. As Charlie remarked "Oh, there's a good idea."
Hey, what's the worst that could happen?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Alumni Relations
I'm in the Law Review office, stuffing envelopes. I'm not supposed to be stuffing envelopes, my committee members are supposed to be stuffing envelopes. But I just really don't want to do anything else, so, I revert to the comfort of collating and folding.
Phone call. The two staff members with me look up in alarm. Like maybe the phone is a fake and is in fact a bomb that is now going to explode.
Sadly, nothing that fantastic.
I pick up, and politely greet our caller. (Say what you want about me, but I have very nice phone manners. My mama raised me right.)
"Hi, I'm an alumni of the Law College and of the Law Review."
"Great! How can I help you?" (People who only speak to me on the phone probably think I'm a lot nicer and cuter than I actually am.
"Are you one of the students who writes for the Law Review?" Ok, at this point I begin to suspect that he is not in fact a Law Review alum. I happen to be a student who has written something for the Law Review, but that's really just dumb luck, because that's not really what we do in this office.
"Um. Yes, I'm member of the Law Review. How can I help you?"
"Well, I'm a practitioner, and I have a question. Can you answer it for me?"
I assume maybe he wants to know how to submit an article.
"Well, the legislature changed some words in some law and I want to know if judges are just going to automatically throw these MIP cases out from now on."
Now I'm starting to doubt that he's an alum of the Law school and maybe not even a practitioner, because I think then maybe he would realize that I can't give legal advice and he certainly shouldn't be asking some random law student for it. Not to mention the fact that I'm not a judge and am in no position to say how judges are going to interpret a given statute. Also, lazy-face, it's called research. Do some.
I pause for a second, wondering if maybe this is some sort of test.
"Um. Well, I'm not sure and I really can't give legal advice (which you should know, if you are indeed a lawyer, as I'm starting to suspect you are not) and even if I was a lawyer, it would be hard for me to say, because I'm not a judge (also, DO SOME RESEARCH)."
"Ok. Thanks, bye!"
Why do I always field the weird phone calls?
Phone call. The two staff members with me look up in alarm. Like maybe the phone is a fake and is in fact a bomb that is now going to explode.
Sadly, nothing that fantastic.
I pick up, and politely greet our caller. (Say what you want about me, but I have very nice phone manners. My mama raised me right.)
"Hi, I'm an alumni of the Law College and of the Law Review."
"Great! How can I help you?" (People who only speak to me on the phone probably think I'm a lot nicer and cuter than I actually am.
"Are you one of the students who writes for the Law Review?" Ok, at this point I begin to suspect that he is not in fact a Law Review alum. I happen to be a student who has written something for the Law Review, but that's really just dumb luck, because that's not really what we do in this office.
"Um. Yes, I'm member of the Law Review. How can I help you?"
"Well, I'm a practitioner, and I have a question. Can you answer it for me?"
I assume maybe he wants to know how to submit an article.
"Well, the legislature changed some words in some law and I want to know if judges are just going to automatically throw these MIP cases out from now on."
Now I'm starting to doubt that he's an alum of the Law school and maybe not even a practitioner, because I think then maybe he would realize that I can't give legal advice and he certainly shouldn't be asking some random law student for it. Not to mention the fact that I'm not a judge and am in no position to say how judges are going to interpret a given statute. Also, lazy-face, it's called research. Do some.
I pause for a second, wondering if maybe this is some sort of test.
"Um. Well, I'm not sure and I really can't give legal advice (which you should know, if you are indeed a lawyer, as I'm starting to suspect you are not) and even if I was a lawyer, it would be hard for me to say, because I'm not a judge (also, DO SOME RESEARCH)."
"Ok. Thanks, bye!"
Why do I always field the weird phone calls?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Sin in the Second City
Escape from the Law College. Ok, it's a family vacation in Chicago, but it's three days of not-the-pit. For many of you, family vacation conjures idllyic images of picnic baskets and campgrounds, playing "I Spy" in the car and going to see national landmarks in good weather, and playing board games in bad weather.
You've obviously never been on vacation with my family.
While it's true that we ocassionally escape to a lake house with a boat to do water-sport type things, the overwhelming theme of most of our family vacations revolve around food and booze. Hell, we even go wine-tasting up at the lake. As D said to A.J. when he said I should go see the bats take off in Austin "I know my sister, if they're not serving wine at the end, she's not going."
I was up at the ass-crack of dawn, arrived at my gate, and started slogging through some law review stuff (I know, I'm lame) just in time to see some guy have a mantrum because his flight had switched gates and he didn't know where the new one was. He full on calls Northwest to bitch because the woman at our gate told him where the new gate was. He told her she had attitude. I told him he was an asshole (yes, of course I actually told him that). I touched down in Chicago early on Friday morning. I thought about maybe getting breakfast or something, since I'd been up since 5 and it was now 8 local time. Ha. Jabba (my father) wants to go directly to the museum, without passing "Go" or collecting $200, or even a blueberry muffin.
He's a man who frequently types up itineraries for two day trips, Jabba. I cannot tell you how disconcerting it was that he had no specific plan for this little jaunt. And yet, our schedule was not flexible enough to allow for me to eat something before going to the museum. Whatever. I got to see "Sue" and mummies and shit, which made me happy. But, note to the Field Museum: way to hate on the Native American Exhibit. Every other exhibit in yo damn building is all multi-media and has nice pictures interwoven with themed-display cases and video and nice lighting. Meanwhile, you clearly haven't done a damn thing with the Native American exhibit since the 70s when pinning a headdress and a blanket to blank walls was the height of presentation. Fail. I judge you. I even judge you after eating which means you truly have failed.
Once we considered ourselves appropriately cultured for the day, we went shopping. D did not accompany us on this trip, because she was in Toronto, where unbeknownst to her, but knownst to all of us, A.J. was going to pop the question. Thus, I had no female shopping buddy before the arrival of my youngest sister and my stepmother. And also, there was no one to be as annoyed as I was about what happened at Nordstrom's. I'm walking through the cosmetics area, because there are a few items I wish to purchase. A lady with a sample comes up to me and asks if I'd like to test her moisturizer. "Sure." I reply, it smells nice, and hey, it's a freebie. I reproduce our exchange for your benefit:
"So, do you use moisturizer in your daily routine?"
"Um, yeeeeees" (Does it look like I don't?)
"Which moisturizer do you use"
"Clinique three-step, oil-free"
"Oh, well, you might want to make the switch to this. Clinique doesn't have any anti-aging agents in it. This does, and it's time for you to step it up."
FUCK. YOU. BITCH. I do not require anti-aging agents, and I do not need to have my skin/age insulted by some botoxed teenager who weighs twelve pounds. And if you want me to buy your fucking 80 dollar face cream, telling me my skin looks old is not the way to do it. And it's a lie. I may have a lot of faults, but bad skin ain't one of em. Hooker.
It's not too long after this that we decide to go get a glass of wine while waiting on Kentucky Derby and Barely Legal. I notice that I have a voicemail. It's from D. It says "Hey Lola, it's D call me back, I have something to tell you!" I assume this is the "I'm engaged!!!!" phone call. But, knowing D, I decide to play it safe. It's just as likely that the important information is that Miller Lite cans come with French writing on them in Canada or something.
"Soooo, you have something to tell me?"
"Yeah, I got an interview at Younker's for seasonal help!! Isn't that hilarious? Becky (K.D.'s sister) works there!"
My face. It is dead pan. What. the. fuck. That is her big news. *facepalm.*
Dinner was at Fogo de Chao, a Brazillian steakhouse that I totally recommend. You have a coaster that is green on one side, red on the other. Brazillian men in tight pants bring around skewers of meat. If you want some, you flip your card to green. The meat was fantastic. As was the Caipirina I downed with dinner. Hadn't had one of those since I lived in Ecuador. It was as tasty and as potent as I remembered.
Which brings me to my after-dinner activities. Full and oddly turned on, I left the restaurant to meet Shanna, one of my college roomates for a drink (Jabba insisted on "making sure I got in" to the bar. Because I am clearly 14 and going on my first date or something). We drink a couple of $10 martinis and then decide that it's time to get a cheap beer and call it a night (yeah, it's before 10). There is a huge line at Howl at the Moon, so we decide to have our beer at the bar in my hotel. Oh, baby. We knows how to live.
Except, we didn't have beer. We split a bottle of champagne. And made the acquaintance of very nice guy who was in town on business and (I couldn't help but notice) very hot. So much for turning in after the beer. Shanna and I regaled him (or scared the shit out of him) with tales of our friends from college and the correct usage of a dental dam. I remarked that this is probably not what normaly girls talk about when he first meets them. He agreed and I replied "Well, you haven't met Shanna and I." In true classy fashion, we decide that the best way to end the night is not to go out, but to go to the 7-11 across the street, get cheap champagne and beer and have a hotel party. Shanna, none-too-quietly tells me that she is trying to get me laid, which I appreciate. I just don't appreciate it at that volume. Hotel Hottie, showing prescience (and an instant read on Shanna and I) orders Advil and has it sent up to his room. Shanna keeps "secretly" asking when she can leave, so I can get busy (she does this by texting me).
Meanwhile, I am getting text messages on K.D.s phone (mine was dead) from "Badmitton Billy." I have NO earthly idea who that is, and I don't want to know about my stepmother's texting friends and how they may have earned that nickname. Badmitton Billy seems concerned about K.D.s wherabouts. And that's when I look at the calllback number. It's my father. Now I really don't want to think about where he got his nickname (I found out. It's boring. I will leave it to imagination. It's better that way).
4 a.m. Chicago time. I wake up. In Hotel Hottie's room. Normally, I would just enjoy this and maybe wake him up. Today, I am dimly aware of the fact that I am sharing a hotel room with my family. Epic fail. Hotel Hottie snags my number and I sneak in like a teenager after curfew. I really, truly, feel like I'm 16, sneaking in after fooling around with a boy. I somehow avoided waking anyone.
It was the next morning that I got the text from Hotel Hottie, asking me to come back. It's just as well. I apologize for missing his message and he suggests drinks. Which throws me, because I honestly thought I'd never hear from him again.
We're at the aquarium when we all notice missed calls. From D. Barely Legal gets there first. I'll be damned if she gets the announcement before I do. I can hear D ask if I'm around and then for B.L. to put the phone on speaker. Aaaaaaaaaand she's engaged! And A.J. dropped the ring! (I could hear him in the background saying "Come ON!") And we all knew about it and no one blew it. Shocking, I know.
I take stock. While D's being all lovey-dovey engaged in Canda, I am sharing a double bed with my 17 year old sister. Clearly, I must needs have another fantastic night to prove my fabulousness.
Ask, and ye shall receive. I meet up with Emily, for a cocktail party for her doctorate program. This turned out to be lame and we got harrassed by a man on a rickshaw. So, back to my lobby bar we go. No champagne today. Jack Daniels on the rocks for her, and Grey Goose on the rocks for me. Which is how Hotel Hottie finds us after his conference. Emily, God bless her, ducks out shortly after this to meet up with other friends.
Which finds us at the local dive sports bar, heckling the men playing the boxing game. This was truly entertaining. One man, slightly smaller than his buddy, was getting really upset every time his score was beaten, yet, he had to keep his cool for the sake of his female companion. This led to Hotel Hottie and I making up dialogue. Also, a ranking system for how friendly you can be to someone based on their score at boxing. At this point, we "remember" that we never drank the beer from the night before and retire to his room to drink it. Yeah, we got like, three sips in apiece. I don't know how many people go on family vacation and sleeps with the sexy stranger from the hotel bar, but let me tell you: if you haven't tried it, you should. It's weekends like these that remind me how great it can be to be single. Even though he teased me for having to sneak into my shared room like I'm coming home from prom.
Which is what I'm telling the fabulous Amie the next morning over breakfast. She laughs and tells me that her friend, a new reader, has summed me up: "she's funny, but kinda slutty." She's got me there. A girl's gotta have fun, right?
D asks me how the trip was "Well, while you were getting engaged in Toronto, I was getting drunk and lucky in Chicago."
You do things your way baby girl, and I'll do things mine.
You've obviously never been on vacation with my family.
While it's true that we ocassionally escape to a lake house with a boat to do water-sport type things, the overwhelming theme of most of our family vacations revolve around food and booze. Hell, we even go wine-tasting up at the lake. As D said to A.J. when he said I should go see the bats take off in Austin "I know my sister, if they're not serving wine at the end, she's not going."
I was up at the ass-crack of dawn, arrived at my gate, and started slogging through some law review stuff (I know, I'm lame) just in time to see some guy have a mantrum because his flight had switched gates and he didn't know where the new one was. He full on calls Northwest to bitch because the woman at our gate told him where the new gate was. He told her she had attitude. I told him he was an asshole (yes, of course I actually told him that). I touched down in Chicago early on Friday morning. I thought about maybe getting breakfast or something, since I'd been up since 5 and it was now 8 local time. Ha. Jabba (my father) wants to go directly to the museum, without passing "Go" or collecting $200, or even a blueberry muffin.
He's a man who frequently types up itineraries for two day trips, Jabba. I cannot tell you how disconcerting it was that he had no specific plan for this little jaunt. And yet, our schedule was not flexible enough to allow for me to eat something before going to the museum. Whatever. I got to see "Sue" and mummies and shit, which made me happy. But, note to the Field Museum: way to hate on the Native American Exhibit. Every other exhibit in yo damn building is all multi-media and has nice pictures interwoven with themed-display cases and video and nice lighting. Meanwhile, you clearly haven't done a damn thing with the Native American exhibit since the 70s when pinning a headdress and a blanket to blank walls was the height of presentation. Fail. I judge you. I even judge you after eating which means you truly have failed.
Once we considered ourselves appropriately cultured for the day, we went shopping. D did not accompany us on this trip, because she was in Toronto, where unbeknownst to her, but knownst to all of us, A.J. was going to pop the question. Thus, I had no female shopping buddy before the arrival of my youngest sister and my stepmother. And also, there was no one to be as annoyed as I was about what happened at Nordstrom's. I'm walking through the cosmetics area, because there are a few items I wish to purchase. A lady with a sample comes up to me and asks if I'd like to test her moisturizer. "Sure." I reply, it smells nice, and hey, it's a freebie. I reproduce our exchange for your benefit:
"So, do you use moisturizer in your daily routine?"
"Um, yeeeeees" (Does it look like I don't?)
"Which moisturizer do you use"
"Clinique three-step, oil-free"
"Oh, well, you might want to make the switch to this. Clinique doesn't have any anti-aging agents in it. This does, and it's time for you to step it up."
FUCK. YOU. BITCH. I do not require anti-aging agents, and I do not need to have my skin/age insulted by some botoxed teenager who weighs twelve pounds. And if you want me to buy your fucking 80 dollar face cream, telling me my skin looks old is not the way to do it. And it's a lie. I may have a lot of faults, but bad skin ain't one of em. Hooker.
It's not too long after this that we decide to go get a glass of wine while waiting on Kentucky Derby and Barely Legal. I notice that I have a voicemail. It's from D. It says "Hey Lola, it's D call me back, I have something to tell you!" I assume this is the "I'm engaged!!!!" phone call. But, knowing D, I decide to play it safe. It's just as likely that the important information is that Miller Lite cans come with French writing on them in Canada or something.
"Soooo, you have something to tell me?"
"Yeah, I got an interview at Younker's for seasonal help!! Isn't that hilarious? Becky (K.D.'s sister) works there!"
My face. It is dead pan. What. the. fuck. That is her big news. *facepalm.*
Dinner was at Fogo de Chao, a Brazillian steakhouse that I totally recommend. You have a coaster that is green on one side, red on the other. Brazillian men in tight pants bring around skewers of meat. If you want some, you flip your card to green. The meat was fantastic. As was the Caipirina I downed with dinner. Hadn't had one of those since I lived in Ecuador. It was as tasty and as potent as I remembered.
Which brings me to my after-dinner activities. Full and oddly turned on, I left the restaurant to meet Shanna, one of my college roomates for a drink (Jabba insisted on "making sure I got in" to the bar. Because I am clearly 14 and going on my first date or something). We drink a couple of $10 martinis and then decide that it's time to get a cheap beer and call it a night (yeah, it's before 10). There is a huge line at Howl at the Moon, so we decide to have our beer at the bar in my hotel. Oh, baby. We knows how to live.
Except, we didn't have beer. We split a bottle of champagne. And made the acquaintance of very nice guy who was in town on business and (I couldn't help but notice) very hot. So much for turning in after the beer. Shanna and I regaled him (or scared the shit out of him) with tales of our friends from college and the correct usage of a dental dam. I remarked that this is probably not what normaly girls talk about when he first meets them. He agreed and I replied "Well, you haven't met Shanna and I." In true classy fashion, we decide that the best way to end the night is not to go out, but to go to the 7-11 across the street, get cheap champagne and beer and have a hotel party. Shanna, none-too-quietly tells me that she is trying to get me laid, which I appreciate. I just don't appreciate it at that volume. Hotel Hottie, showing prescience (and an instant read on Shanna and I) orders Advil and has it sent up to his room. Shanna keeps "secretly" asking when she can leave, so I can get busy (she does this by texting me).
Meanwhile, I am getting text messages on K.D.s phone (mine was dead) from "Badmitton Billy." I have NO earthly idea who that is, and I don't want to know about my stepmother's texting friends and how they may have earned that nickname. Badmitton Billy seems concerned about K.D.s wherabouts. And that's when I look at the calllback number. It's my father. Now I really don't want to think about where he got his nickname (I found out. It's boring. I will leave it to imagination. It's better that way).
4 a.m. Chicago time. I wake up. In Hotel Hottie's room. Normally, I would just enjoy this and maybe wake him up. Today, I am dimly aware of the fact that I am sharing a hotel room with my family. Epic fail. Hotel Hottie snags my number and I sneak in like a teenager after curfew. I really, truly, feel like I'm 16, sneaking in after fooling around with a boy. I somehow avoided waking anyone.
It was the next morning that I got the text from Hotel Hottie, asking me to come back. It's just as well. I apologize for missing his message and he suggests drinks. Which throws me, because I honestly thought I'd never hear from him again.
We're at the aquarium when we all notice missed calls. From D. Barely Legal gets there first. I'll be damned if she gets the announcement before I do. I can hear D ask if I'm around and then for B.L. to put the phone on speaker. Aaaaaaaaaand she's engaged! And A.J. dropped the ring! (I could hear him in the background saying "Come ON!") And we all knew about it and no one blew it. Shocking, I know.
I take stock. While D's being all lovey-dovey engaged in Canda, I am sharing a double bed with my 17 year old sister. Clearly, I must needs have another fantastic night to prove my fabulousness.
Ask, and ye shall receive. I meet up with Emily, for a cocktail party for her doctorate program. This turned out to be lame and we got harrassed by a man on a rickshaw. So, back to my lobby bar we go. No champagne today. Jack Daniels on the rocks for her, and Grey Goose on the rocks for me. Which is how Hotel Hottie finds us after his conference. Emily, God bless her, ducks out shortly after this to meet up with other friends.
Which finds us at the local dive sports bar, heckling the men playing the boxing game. This was truly entertaining. One man, slightly smaller than his buddy, was getting really upset every time his score was beaten, yet, he had to keep his cool for the sake of his female companion. This led to Hotel Hottie and I making up dialogue. Also, a ranking system for how friendly you can be to someone based on their score at boxing. At this point, we "remember" that we never drank the beer from the night before and retire to his room to drink it. Yeah, we got like, three sips in apiece. I don't know how many people go on family vacation and sleeps with the sexy stranger from the hotel bar, but let me tell you: if you haven't tried it, you should. It's weekends like these that remind me how great it can be to be single. Even though he teased me for having to sneak into my shared room like I'm coming home from prom.
Which is what I'm telling the fabulous Amie the next morning over breakfast. She laughs and tells me that her friend, a new reader, has summed me up: "she's funny, but kinda slutty." She's got me there. A girl's gotta have fun, right?
D asks me how the trip was "Well, while you were getting engaged in Toronto, I was getting drunk and lucky in Chicago."
You do things your way baby girl, and I'll do things mine.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Do You Feel Lucky, Punk?
I maintain that the law college is built like a casino. Like a casino, there are almost no windows, no fresh air, and few clocks. You're not supposed to have any idea what time it is, or indeed, what day it is. This goes further, you completely lose track of what is going on outside of the little bubble. They design it that way, so you're not distracted by the fact that it's, say, half-off wine night, or your spouse's birthday.
Which is why it should come as no surprise that I didn't think twice about letting the Professor I am a T.A. for set office hours for me one Friday night. I wasn't thrilled, but I figured it would be a good opportunity to get some work done and I set off. Only to find the road closed down for, I shit you not, the Homecoming Parade.
Needless to say, when I actually arrive on campus, I'm in no angelic mood, having been diverted through the subdivisions numerous times. Also, I'm working on a Friday night. Lame. But, who am I kidding? I would be sitting around doing laundry otherwise.
I'm a T.A. for one of those classes that all 1Ls need to take, and at this time of year, they're exceptionally antsy. But I still have a hard time believing that anyone is going to come in on a Friday night. And if they do, I think I'm going to say "It's Friday night, get the fuck out of here and get a life. It's too late for me, but you can still run. RUN!"
While I'm waiting for 1Ls that never come, I do something uncharacteristically kind and help one of my staff members, we'll call him Joe, with finding sources for his assigment. I walk him through how to find the regulation he seeks and send him off into the big kids' world to print and find the other reguations in that section. This goes well for a few minutes. Until he informs me that there is no title page for this section of the C.F.R. I pause. I know that this is published by the government. I know there is a title page. I've already spent like, 20 minutes helping him do something that he should have been able to do without me, so I'm not feeling too sympathetic.
"There's no title page."
I calmly respond, "Yes, I'm sure there is. Just keep looking. Click to the table of contents."
He clicks, like two more times. "No, I don't think there's a title page." He's starting to sound petulant and frustrated.
"Oh, I bet there is."
"Prove it."
Which is why it should come as no surprise that I didn't think twice about letting the Professor I am a T.A. for set office hours for me one Friday night. I wasn't thrilled, but I figured it would be a good opportunity to get some work done and I set off. Only to find the road closed down for, I shit you not, the Homecoming Parade.
Needless to say, when I actually arrive on campus, I'm in no angelic mood, having been diverted through the subdivisions numerous times. Also, I'm working on a Friday night. Lame. But, who am I kidding? I would be sitting around doing laundry otherwise.
I'm a T.A. for one of those classes that all 1Ls need to take, and at this time of year, they're exceptionally antsy. But I still have a hard time believing that anyone is going to come in on a Friday night. And if they do, I think I'm going to say "It's Friday night, get the fuck out of here and get a life. It's too late for me, but you can still run. RUN!"
While I'm waiting for 1Ls that never come, I do something uncharacteristically kind and help one of my staff members, we'll call him Joe, with finding sources for his assigment. I walk him through how to find the regulation he seeks and send him off into the big kids' world to print and find the other reguations in that section. This goes well for a few minutes. Until he informs me that there is no title page for this section of the C.F.R. I pause. I know that this is published by the government. I know there is a title page. I've already spent like, 20 minutes helping him do something that he should have been able to do without me, so I'm not feeling too sympathetic.
"There's no title page."
I calmly respond, "Yes, I'm sure there is. Just keep looking. Click to the table of contents."
He clicks, like two more times. "No, I don't think there's a title page." He's starting to sound petulant and frustrated.
"Oh, I bet there is."
"Prove it."
The heads of the two other guys at the table snap up immediately, eyes wide, they're looking between him and I, probably to see exactly what I'm going to do. Like I'm possibly going to rip his throat out with my teeth, or rip his sack off like a paper towel and stuff it up his nose. Let's face it, those are both threats I've used before, and I already said I was cranky. I look at him and pause, just long enough for his to widen and calmly reply "Wow, we're feeling ballsy today aren't we?" He has the grace to give a little apologetic chuckle. I'm still on my kinder, gentler, Lola kick (kinda) so I simply go on,
"I bet I can find it." It takes me under two minutes to find the title page. And I give him instructions, trying my best not to smirk. Reminds me of when I would complain to my mom that I couldn't find something in my room and she'd say "If I come in there and I can find it...."
"You're...kind of amazing..." He says.
Better write that down.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
What We Have Here is Failure to Communicate
I always assumed it would be human stupidity that gave me the fatal stroke. I may have underestimated our computer friends.
On a Monday, not so very long ago, I am trying to complete the relatively simple task of printing a proof of service. The printer informs me that there is a communication error. I'm not sure what this means. I try restarting both computer and printer (my fix for everything) because, seriously, the damn thing worked FIFTEEN SECONDS AGO. No use. The junior clerk at Cafe Legalese is trying to fax something across town. Communication error. I give in, and go to Dell's LiveChat support, eager for step-by-step guidance through this problem.
Bad idea. I'm sure this person doesn't speak the English, because he cannot provide an alternate explanation for terms that must have come out of the operation manual for pros. "Ma'am," he begins, never a good thing, because I fucking hate when people call me "Ma'am" like I'm some 60 year old Southern grandma shellin' butterbeans with a bottle of moonshine. "Ma'am, please provide me with your whatsamajiggysomethingabout IP." Excuse me? How do I find that? If I knew what that was, do you think I'd be talking to YOU? I probably would have just rebuilt this thing if that were the case.
I ask him to please explain this to me like a five year old, because I am not good with computers.
"Begin at the left navigation and select the somethingincomputerspeak." Select the what with the what? Ok, we need to talk. Maybe I wasn't making myself clear. I need you to explain this to me like a five-year-old who only speaks English. "I'm sorry sir, but I really need you to explain this without any computer jargon. I don't understand what you want me to do."
Finally, either his fingers were cramping up from typing the manual verbatim, or he sensed I was about to reach through the computer screen and throttle him, because he finally just seized control of my computer and printer remotely and then informed me that I essentially needed to go to the printer settings menu and type in a little number. I spent my entire morning on this.
It's this sort of shit that makes me want to run screaming from the idea or starting my own practice after law school--what if I can't afford to pay someone to deal with this?
Another day, another computer, another burst blood vessel. I am following the step-by-step instructions on the way to compile electronically and thus save my self approximately 60% of the time I spend on compiling articles. Everything appears to have gone well, until I notice that some of the footnotes have been re-numbered. No big deal, I don't save the changes and start over again with a clean base copy. I check again. Two different footnotes have been deleted and now everything is re-numbered. Great. I mutter obscenities under my breath. Dan senses my blood pressure rising and wisely concentrates on whatever he's reading. I take a deep breath, don't save the changes and try one more time, and it looks like I've gotten it this time. Nope, yet two different footnotes have been changed. My face slams into the desk and I'm about 3 seconds from flinging Computie into the wall. Dan, sensing danger, says he's calling it a night and suggests drinking. I'm sure this is a ploy to avoid being hit by richocheting pieces of Computie, but he says the magic word (alcohol!), so I play along.
The next day, I think I've figured out how to fix this. I reject formatting changes that don't make sense. The only change that cannot be rejected is the deletion of the footnote numbers. At this point, I'm pretty sure I smell burning toast. I make a last ditch effort to have Susan explain this to me. At this point, I'm fully aware that I've spent so much time trying to find the quick way to do this that I may as well have done this by hand in the first instance. Apparently, I have done this exactly the way I was instructed to and not one other person's computer did this. It's settled, Computie has some sort of vendetta against me. At this point, even my stubborn ass has to concede the contest to Computie and buckle down to manually compile this article, knowing full well that I've already wasted enough time to have finished it already. Hours later, driving home at midnight, the speed limit changes from 45 to 35 maybe two miles from my house. I'm coasting down and I get pulled over.
What do you want God, blood?
On a Monday, not so very long ago, I am trying to complete the relatively simple task of printing a proof of service. The printer informs me that there is a communication error. I'm not sure what this means. I try restarting both computer and printer (my fix for everything) because, seriously, the damn thing worked FIFTEEN SECONDS AGO. No use. The junior clerk at Cafe Legalese is trying to fax something across town. Communication error. I give in, and go to Dell's LiveChat support, eager for step-by-step guidance through this problem.
Bad idea. I'm sure this person doesn't speak the English, because he cannot provide an alternate explanation for terms that must have come out of the operation manual for pros. "Ma'am," he begins, never a good thing, because I fucking hate when people call me "Ma'am" like I'm some 60 year old Southern grandma shellin' butterbeans with a bottle of moonshine. "Ma'am, please provide me with your whatsamajiggysomethingabout IP." Excuse me? How do I find that? If I knew what that was, do you think I'd be talking to YOU? I probably would have just rebuilt this thing if that were the case.
I ask him to please explain this to me like a five year old, because I am not good with computers.
"Begin at the left navigation and select the somethingincomputerspeak." Select the what with the what? Ok, we need to talk. Maybe I wasn't making myself clear. I need you to explain this to me like a five-year-old who only speaks English. "I'm sorry sir, but I really need you to explain this without any computer jargon. I don't understand what you want me to do."
Finally, either his fingers were cramping up from typing the manual verbatim, or he sensed I was about to reach through the computer screen and throttle him, because he finally just seized control of my computer and printer remotely and then informed me that I essentially needed to go to the printer settings menu and type in a little number. I spent my entire morning on this.
It's this sort of shit that makes me want to run screaming from the idea or starting my own practice after law school--what if I can't afford to pay someone to deal with this?
Another day, another computer, another burst blood vessel. I am following the step-by-step instructions on the way to compile electronically and thus save my self approximately 60% of the time I spend on compiling articles. Everything appears to have gone well, until I notice that some of the footnotes have been re-numbered. No big deal, I don't save the changes and start over again with a clean base copy. I check again. Two different footnotes have been deleted and now everything is re-numbered. Great. I mutter obscenities under my breath. Dan senses my blood pressure rising and wisely concentrates on whatever he's reading. I take a deep breath, don't save the changes and try one more time, and it looks like I've gotten it this time. Nope, yet two different footnotes have been changed. My face slams into the desk and I'm about 3 seconds from flinging Computie into the wall. Dan, sensing danger, says he's calling it a night and suggests drinking. I'm sure this is a ploy to avoid being hit by richocheting pieces of Computie, but he says the magic word (alcohol!), so I play along.
The next day, I think I've figured out how to fix this. I reject formatting changes that don't make sense. The only change that cannot be rejected is the deletion of the footnote numbers. At this point, I'm pretty sure I smell burning toast. I make a last ditch effort to have Susan explain this to me. At this point, I'm fully aware that I've spent so much time trying to find the quick way to do this that I may as well have done this by hand in the first instance. Apparently, I have done this exactly the way I was instructed to and not one other person's computer did this. It's settled, Computie has some sort of vendetta against me. At this point, even my stubborn ass has to concede the contest to Computie and buckle down to manually compile this article, knowing full well that I've already wasted enough time to have finished it already. Hours later, driving home at midnight, the speed limit changes from 45 to 35 maybe two miles from my house. I'm coasting down and I get pulled over.
What do you want God, blood?
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Call is Coming From Inside the House
A night at home with our kitten, Binx (not his real name, but it's what I would have named him, if Finn hadn't named him before we even decided to adopt him). I 'm still down for the count, and have made a concession to the various evils in my body by sleeping on the couch all day. I can't drink, I can't smoke, and I can't have sex, so I'm not entirely sure what to do with my Friday night. So, I'm drinking tea, watching movies, and cuddling with Binx.
I hear the text notification on my phone "ding!" so I pick up to see who it is. Wasn't my phone. Finn is in out of town, but it's possible he left his phone (we have the same phone, so there's a lot of "was that you or me?" in our house) at the apartment. So, too lazy to search, I text him: "Hey, did you leave your phone at home?" He replies, which means he has his phone and makes his answer totally unnecessary ("Nope."). Hm. If it wasn't my phone and it wasn't his, whose was it?
I reply, "Hm. Then we have a ghost phone in the apartment. Enjoy the party!"
I puzzle over this. Seriously, I distinctly heard the text noise. This would not be my first experience with a ghost phone. I used to hear a phone vibrating. The first time, I thought someone had left their phone at my house and was lodged in my cushions or something. No one was missing a phone, and no stray phone has ever turned up. But it has been some time since I've heard a ghost phone, and it always vibrated before. I chalk it up to a ghost with Verizon service and start flipping channels.
Phone call: It's Finn. "Hey, can you do me a favor? I'm getting really paranoid."
Lola, thinking: "Oh, it's sweet! He's worried that there's someone in the house and I'm all alone and sick! Expecting him to ask me to check the house and invite a friend over, I reply, "Of course, what do you need?"
Finn: "Can you check Binx's collar and loosen it? I'm worried it's too tight."
Lola: "Yeah, I'll loosen his collar. See you Sunday."
Seriously? Our house is haunted by a Verizon ghost, and he's worried about the cat's collar. Seriously? I'm going back to bed.
I hear the text notification on my phone "ding!" so I pick up to see who it is. Wasn't my phone. Finn is in out of town, but it's possible he left his phone (we have the same phone, so there's a lot of "was that you or me?" in our house) at the apartment. So, too lazy to search, I text him: "Hey, did you leave your phone at home?" He replies, which means he has his phone and makes his answer totally unnecessary ("Nope."). Hm. If it wasn't my phone and it wasn't his, whose was it?
I reply, "Hm. Then we have a ghost phone in the apartment. Enjoy the party!"
I puzzle over this. Seriously, I distinctly heard the text noise. This would not be my first experience with a ghost phone. I used to hear a phone vibrating. The first time, I thought someone had left their phone at my house and was lodged in my cushions or something. No one was missing a phone, and no stray phone has ever turned up. But it has been some time since I've heard a ghost phone, and it always vibrated before. I chalk it up to a ghost with Verizon service and start flipping channels.
Phone call: It's Finn. "Hey, can you do me a favor? I'm getting really paranoid."
Lola, thinking: "Oh, it's sweet! He's worried that there's someone in the house and I'm all alone and sick! Expecting him to ask me to check the house and invite a friend over, I reply, "Of course, what do you need?"
Finn: "Can you check Binx's collar and loosen it? I'm worried it's too tight."
Lola: "Yeah, I'll loosen his collar. See you Sunday."
Seriously? Our house is haunted by a Verizon ghost, and he's worried about the cat's collar. Seriously? I'm going back to bed.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Alive and Schticking
A night at home with Lola and Finn:
I'm about to hack up a lung, a lung which feels like it's being dipped in acid. Finn is tossing a coin and catching it in the dining room, watching me white-knuckle the counter and gasp for air like the goldfish in those asthma commercials. For the sake of expediency, I will just reproduce our conversation verbatim:
Finn: So.....when you die, how long should I wait to call the ambulance before it's ruled some sort of assisted suicide or something? Like, can I just stand here doing this and watch you gasp for air and collapse?
Lola: Please call the ambulance while I'm dying and then I'd appreciate some CPR.
Finn: I don't want to catch what you've got!
Lola: Thanks, babe. . . . Ok, If I were you, I'd help me to bed while I'm dying and then pop in a movie. Wait an hour or so. Then, go into my room, make sure I'm gone and then call EMS. Tell them I went to bed because I wasn't feeling well and you could hear me coughing. Then I stopped coughing and you yelled to see if I was ok. I didn't answer, so you came in to check on me and I was already gone.
Finn: Why do I get the impression that this is exactly what you've got planned to do to me?
Lola: I would at least try to give you CPR.
Friendship. We haz it. I maintain that he wants the bigger bedroom and the walk-in closet.
Later, another attack of the Lola-can't-breathe...
Finn: Are you alive?
Lola: I believe so. Barely.
Finn: Are you ok with being alive?
Lola: I'd rather not be.
Finn: Please don't die before the next rent check is due.
In Finn's defense, he did make me hot cider because I was laying on the couch whining about wanting some. When I get better, I'll probably even let him live.
I'm about to hack up a lung, a lung which feels like it's being dipped in acid. Finn is tossing a coin and catching it in the dining room, watching me white-knuckle the counter and gasp for air like the goldfish in those asthma commercials. For the sake of expediency, I will just reproduce our conversation verbatim:
Finn: So.....when you die, how long should I wait to call the ambulance before it's ruled some sort of assisted suicide or something? Like, can I just stand here doing this and watch you gasp for air and collapse?
Lola: Please call the ambulance while I'm dying and then I'd appreciate some CPR.
Finn: I don't want to catch what you've got!
Lola: Thanks, babe. . . . Ok, If I were you, I'd help me to bed while I'm dying and then pop in a movie. Wait an hour or so. Then, go into my room, make sure I'm gone and then call EMS. Tell them I went to bed because I wasn't feeling well and you could hear me coughing. Then I stopped coughing and you yelled to see if I was ok. I didn't answer, so you came in to check on me and I was already gone.
Finn: Why do I get the impression that this is exactly what you've got planned to do to me?
Lola: I would at least try to give you CPR.
Friendship. We haz it. I maintain that he wants the bigger bedroom and the walk-in closet.
Later, another attack of the Lola-can't-breathe...
Finn: Are you alive?
Lola: I believe so. Barely.
Finn: Are you ok with being alive?
Lola: I'd rather not be.
Finn: Please don't die before the next rent check is due.
In Finn's defense, he did make me hot cider because I was laying on the couch whining about wanting some. When I get better, I'll probably even let him live.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Abyss
Law school is a cesspool, a veritable breeding ground for germs and new and strange diseases. No one cares for themselves properly, because we don't have the time or the fucking will to live. We don't sleep, eat cheap take-out and gas station food from Spazzy's and binge drink on the weekends to forget about how much our lives generally suck, what with the sleep deprivation, deteriorating relationships, impending unemployment, and constant sense that you're about to be competing with your best friends. We feed off of each others' stress. One person stresses about getting turned down for a job. The rest of us flip, because not only are we worried that this awesome student can't get a job, but then we are struck with the horrifying realization that it means that you have to compete for already scarce jobs, with someone who is not only incredibly qualified, but is also your friend. People with jobs lined up can't even fucking enjoy them as they should, because they know that their friends are imagining themselves playing banjo on a street corner for money. Except most of us don't know how to play banjo, so we'd have to settle for playing Guitar Hero, and I don't think anyone would give me any money to watch me play "Hungry Like the Wolf" on "Easy."
So, we sit for hours in close, confined spaces, stressing, and gnawing through stale bagels like a trapped coyote chewing off its own leg. There's no fresh air, there's no natural light. There's no way around it. It's hard. It's supposed to be. "If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." I have to tell myself this on the days when the only daylight I see is ten minutes on the way to work and five on the way to class. Because when I get to campus, I get the by-product of the price we pay for greatness: a petri dish of exotic, mutating germs. There's the typical coughing and sneezing, the sniffles. Fair enough. But no one can take time off, so we get sicker, and my cough runs into Luke's fever in the elevator, and they mate, and while we hunker down to crank out a complaint and master some sort of understanding of intestate property division on the per stirpes system, the Cough/Fever couple runs into Jenny's body ache and invite it to a threesome. And, despite the fact that we're all supposedly going to die of H1N1, no one wants to chance getting behind unless they've actually got the Hamthrax. That's Karen's sinus congestion comes across the Ache/fever/cough and now we've got a fourgy. And they must be into some kinky shit, because somehow or another, when it comes back around, it's mutated and added inner ear pain.
Everyone feels marginally better, which means it's time to drink like we're auditioning to be Bluto Blutarsky's replacement at the Delta House. On Sunday, we realize that the sore throat someone picked up from a fundergrad at the bar has joined the fun, and we've got a full-on gang-bang goin' on in our throats/heads/noses. And, we incubate. At this point, I'm less concerned with Hamthrax and more concerned that some of my classmates are going to start sprouting tentacles from their noses like some sort of "Alien" movie reject or the stand-in for Davy Jones.
Sunday is also a time to ruminate on the poor decisions made over the past 2 or 3 days. In college, we used to wander into the lounge and compare our drunk bruises (or, as E calls them, "UDI's"). Now, there is a slew of phone calls, and discussions over overpriced coffee to piece together and dissect the weekend. This is usually accomplished by looking through text messages and cameras. I have a friend who carries a camera and cell phone specifically for the purpose of retracing and reassembling the weekend's antics. Today, I'm doing it with the assistance of a "Flipping Out" marathon, and my fantasies of Jeff Lewis becoming my new gay boyfriend. He is, after all, my soulmate.
Thankfully, this was actually a pretty tame weekend for Hurricane Lola. After falling asleep sitting up on my couch (with the result that my right cheekbone is incredibly tender), Finn and I joined the P-funks for a night of killer sangria (which I managed to spill on the carpet), Rockband, and discussion of important topics such as a man nicknamed "Jimmy Horseballs" and the virtues of punctuality. He-funk and Finn are discussing the virtues and flaws of Darcy, the closet gentleman who went from normal speed, to middle-school slow, to way too much for the emotional fuckwittery that is Lola at the moment. He-funk, no doubt prefacing a derrogatory comment about Mr. Darcy's personality, leads in with this "He's a good guy. He's nice, he's polite, he's sweet. He's...punctual." It occurs to She-funk and I that if "punctual" makes the top five in a list of positive traits, it's the equivalent of saying that they have the personality of an empty pizza box. Apparently, he doesn't make eye contact. He-funk continues, "but, he's kind of douchey." Finn jumps into the fray "Is he kind of douchey? How would I know? He never makes eye contact!"
Last night, I think the worse decision I made was trying to sing "Sympathy for the Devil" on Rock Band. I greatly underestimated how many "Woohoo's!" there are at the end of that song. After "The Medium Squad" rocked it out, Finn turns to me and remarks "I'm surprised you're still lucid after that." I'm surprised by two things: 1) that I remained conscious and 2) that someone called me lucid.
And, appropos of of nothing, Keep Fucking that Chicken.
So, we sit for hours in close, confined spaces, stressing, and gnawing through stale bagels like a trapped coyote chewing off its own leg. There's no fresh air, there's no natural light. There's no way around it. It's hard. It's supposed to be. "If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." I have to tell myself this on the days when the only daylight I see is ten minutes on the way to work and five on the way to class. Because when I get to campus, I get the by-product of the price we pay for greatness: a petri dish of exotic, mutating germs. There's the typical coughing and sneezing, the sniffles. Fair enough. But no one can take time off, so we get sicker, and my cough runs into Luke's fever in the elevator, and they mate, and while we hunker down to crank out a complaint and master some sort of understanding of intestate property division on the per stirpes system, the Cough/Fever couple runs into Jenny's body ache and invite it to a threesome. And, despite the fact that we're all supposedly going to die of H1N1, no one wants to chance getting behind unless they've actually got the Hamthrax. That's Karen's sinus congestion comes across the Ache/fever/cough and now we've got a fourgy. And they must be into some kinky shit, because somehow or another, when it comes back around, it's mutated and added inner ear pain.
Everyone feels marginally better, which means it's time to drink like we're auditioning to be Bluto Blutarsky's replacement at the Delta House. On Sunday, we realize that the sore throat someone picked up from a fundergrad at the bar has joined the fun, and we've got a full-on gang-bang goin' on in our throats/heads/noses. And, we incubate. At this point, I'm less concerned with Hamthrax and more concerned that some of my classmates are going to start sprouting tentacles from their noses like some sort of "Alien" movie reject or the stand-in for Davy Jones.
Sunday is also a time to ruminate on the poor decisions made over the past 2 or 3 days. In college, we used to wander into the lounge and compare our drunk bruises (or, as E calls them, "UDI's"). Now, there is a slew of phone calls, and discussions over overpriced coffee to piece together and dissect the weekend. This is usually accomplished by looking through text messages and cameras. I have a friend who carries a camera and cell phone specifically for the purpose of retracing and reassembling the weekend's antics. Today, I'm doing it with the assistance of a "Flipping Out" marathon, and my fantasies of Jeff Lewis becoming my new gay boyfriend. He is, after all, my soulmate.
Thankfully, this was actually a pretty tame weekend for Hurricane Lola. After falling asleep sitting up on my couch (with the result that my right cheekbone is incredibly tender), Finn and I joined the P-funks for a night of killer sangria (which I managed to spill on the carpet), Rockband, and discussion of important topics such as a man nicknamed "Jimmy Horseballs" and the virtues of punctuality. He-funk and Finn are discussing the virtues and flaws of Darcy, the closet gentleman who went from normal speed, to middle-school slow, to way too much for the emotional fuckwittery that is Lola at the moment. He-funk, no doubt prefacing a derrogatory comment about Mr. Darcy's personality, leads in with this "He's a good guy. He's nice, he's polite, he's sweet. He's...punctual." It occurs to She-funk and I that if "punctual" makes the top five in a list of positive traits, it's the equivalent of saying that they have the personality of an empty pizza box. Apparently, he doesn't make eye contact. He-funk continues, "but, he's kind of douchey." Finn jumps into the fray "Is he kind of douchey? How would I know? He never makes eye contact!"
Last night, I think the worse decision I made was trying to sing "Sympathy for the Devil" on Rock Band. I greatly underestimated how many "Woohoo's!" there are at the end of that song. After "The Medium Squad" rocked it out, Finn turns to me and remarks "I'm surprised you're still lucid after that." I'm surprised by two things: 1) that I remained conscious and 2) that someone called me lucid.
And, appropos of of nothing, Keep Fucking that Chicken.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
What Lola Wants
There's a little saying about law school: "First year they scare you to death, second year they work you to death, and third year they bore you to death." Well, it's only taken me a month, and I can tell you, it's absolutely true. Except with the added bonus of me being stressed out of my goddamn mind about finding a job. A HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN clerkship applications and the only response I've gotten is three "thanks, but no thanks" emails. Blah.
It's recently come to my attention that we have some new readers. To you newbies, I say "Welcome! Also, don't talk about Fight Club outside of Fight Club."
Finn is lying on the back of the couch, trying to will the remote into his hand. It's going badly.
After a day of drinking and narrowly avoiding being peed on (Nikki's words, not mine) we're walking back to V's car so we can eat and sober up for round two. A bald man bends down in front of us and flexes his "muscles." "What do you think about this?" He asks us. What does Lola think? I think he's a fucking idiot. I choose to express this by taking my wristlet of justice and thwapping him across the top of his bald head. Nikki giggles and I keep walking.
Round two, party at Bruiser's house a nap, clothing change, bowl of soup and piece of pizza later. I've coaxed some beer out of the reluctant tap and am wondering if I can get drunk again before it's time to leave. V makes a joke about me having a morally-relaxed attitude. "Haha, it's funny. Lola's a whore. You're charting some new territory there, Magellan." Looks are exchanged over the top of the keg. Ok, maybe I'm into making some bad decisions. I decide to go with it. An hour in the fitness center was not enough to make my id quiet down and shut up. I'm ushered from the party, having promised to call and engage in some more poor decision-making.
I sit in the car, realizing that I didn't get drunk. I grin. Excellent. At 2:30 a.m., I'm driving back to pick up Bruiser. Phone call. I pick up, expecting random drunk shenanigans. It was drunk, definitely, random, certainly but the calller is telling me some interesting information and all of a sudden, I'm in a towering fury. I white-knuckle my steering wheel, laugh and hang up. Luckily for the recipient of my anger, I'm picking up Bruiser and an hour delay to go beat someone's ass would have been difficult to explain. He jumps in, and apparently, my rage hasn't entirely subsided because I'm still gripping the steering wheel so hard I might actually yank it off and I'm driving fast enough for him to call me "Nascar." As I'm in the hallway fiddling with my keys in the lock and having my top unbuttoned I think, "I know a good way to work off some aggression."
I'll spare you all the details, but it was an even better idea than the fitness room. What Lola wants, Lola gets. I woke up with fewer bruises though. I think I'll wait until they fade to atempt a round 3. It's like the little blue bristles on your toothbrush. When they turn white, it's time to get a new one.
Id wants a pretzel and a slurpee at Target. I give in, even though I just did a blow-out grocery shop. It was every bit as good as I could have wanted. Id is pleased.
Finn has given up on the remote and is tying a tie over his pajamas.
I've been informed that I'm some sort of soul-sucking, lying, drama-manufacturing succubus. Shame. I guess you can't please everybody. I accidentally hit my bruised arm against the end table. Hm. Maybe I am some sort of succubus. I don't hear anyone complaining. Most often, I hear Nikki laughing on the other end of the phone.
Phone call: It's Nikki. She called to tell me that she's intoxicated. I'm waiting for V to pick me up for the downtown festivals. I'm about to tell her that I'm going to keep her hubby out of trouble for her while she's away, when she gets distracted and ends the call.
Downtown, I see my old roomate from the Hash Palace. The one with the demon cat. I pretend not to see him. I then get one of my all-time favorite voicemails:
"Lo, it's Nikki. Why you no pick up my call? Is it because you didn't want to tell me where you were going?" And then she giggles, tells me to be safe and hangs up.
Id wants beer and Mexican food. As I finish my taco, I realize that Id has some amazing ideas and vow to indulge it a little bit more.
Well, it's time for me to guilt myself into doing my work. So, I bid you adieu (except the ones I'll see tonight) and to my new readers: stay tuned.
It's recently come to my attention that we have some new readers. To you newbies, I say "Welcome! Also, don't talk about Fight Club outside of Fight Club."
Finn is lying on the back of the couch, trying to will the remote into his hand. It's going badly.
After a day of drinking and narrowly avoiding being peed on (Nikki's words, not mine) we're walking back to V's car so we can eat and sober up for round two. A bald man bends down in front of us and flexes his "muscles." "What do you think about this?" He asks us. What does Lola think? I think he's a fucking idiot. I choose to express this by taking my wristlet of justice and thwapping him across the top of his bald head. Nikki giggles and I keep walking.
Round two, party at Bruiser's house a nap, clothing change, bowl of soup and piece of pizza later. I've coaxed some beer out of the reluctant tap and am wondering if I can get drunk again before it's time to leave. V makes a joke about me having a morally-relaxed attitude. "Haha, it's funny. Lola's a whore. You're charting some new territory there, Magellan." Looks are exchanged over the top of the keg. Ok, maybe I'm into making some bad decisions. I decide to go with it. An hour in the fitness center was not enough to make my id quiet down and shut up. I'm ushered from the party, having promised to call and engage in some more poor decision-making.
I sit in the car, realizing that I didn't get drunk. I grin. Excellent. At 2:30 a.m., I'm driving back to pick up Bruiser. Phone call. I pick up, expecting random drunk shenanigans. It was drunk, definitely, random, certainly but the calller is telling me some interesting information and all of a sudden, I'm in a towering fury. I white-knuckle my steering wheel, laugh and hang up. Luckily for the recipient of my anger, I'm picking up Bruiser and an hour delay to go beat someone's ass would have been difficult to explain. He jumps in, and apparently, my rage hasn't entirely subsided because I'm still gripping the steering wheel so hard I might actually yank it off and I'm driving fast enough for him to call me "Nascar." As I'm in the hallway fiddling with my keys in the lock and having my top unbuttoned I think, "I know a good way to work off some aggression."
I'll spare you all the details, but it was an even better idea than the fitness room. What Lola wants, Lola gets. I woke up with fewer bruises though. I think I'll wait until they fade to atempt a round 3. It's like the little blue bristles on your toothbrush. When they turn white, it's time to get a new one.
Id wants a pretzel and a slurpee at Target. I give in, even though I just did a blow-out grocery shop. It was every bit as good as I could have wanted. Id is pleased.
Finn has given up on the remote and is tying a tie over his pajamas.
I've been informed that I'm some sort of soul-sucking, lying, drama-manufacturing succubus. Shame. I guess you can't please everybody. I accidentally hit my bruised arm against the end table. Hm. Maybe I am some sort of succubus. I don't hear anyone complaining. Most often, I hear Nikki laughing on the other end of the phone.
Phone call: It's Nikki. She called to tell me that she's intoxicated. I'm waiting for V to pick me up for the downtown festivals. I'm about to tell her that I'm going to keep her hubby out of trouble for her while she's away, when she gets distracted and ends the call.
Downtown, I see my old roomate from the Hash Palace. The one with the demon cat. I pretend not to see him. I then get one of my all-time favorite voicemails:
"Lo, it's Nikki. Why you no pick up my call? Is it because you didn't want to tell me where you were going?" And then she giggles, tells me to be safe and hangs up.
Id wants beer and Mexican food. As I finish my taco, I realize that Id has some amazing ideas and vow to indulge it a little bit more.
Well, it's time for me to guilt myself into doing my work. So, I bid you adieu (except the ones I'll see tonight) and to my new readers: stay tuned.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Jailhouse Rock
This week did not start well. Computie is dying. The slow painful way. Which was really inconvenient when I needed Computie to do me a solid and help me through the slow, painful process of applying for clerkships. Instead, I battled with Adobe for hours when I should have been adding PDFs of my writing sample to my bazillion clerkships. I got this close to pitching the damn thing across a coffee shop. Unfortunately, I had most of my overpriced Kahlua and Cream latte to drink and a hundred and some odd applications to upload, so that satisfying option came to nothing.
I woke up Monday, with my back and neck completely fucked. What was Lola doing Sunday night you ask? Sleeping in her own bed. The two friends who slept on my couches? Slept perfectly, woke up raving about my comfy couches. I call shenanigans. So, I was already fairly cranky when Computie started rebelling. I was up until after 2 and then awakened by my neighbors moving shadily out of their apartment at 6 a.m. At first I thought they were burglars, and then decided that Finn was bigger and stronger and closer to the living room, so I tried to sleep. And then realized that someone was getting the hell out of Dodge. Sweet.
With no apparent cause for this neck/back evil, I have been informed that it's probably stress. Well, that makes sense. I'm like 9 months from graduation and job prospects are lookin' bleak, and all the men I know have their own kind of special weird and crazy.
Every time I think about this shit, my neck seizes up more. No fucking wonder. Law school does not lend itself to happiness. We're all dead tired, overworked, stressed, malnourished, and fighting the first battles of the war against alcoholism and substance abuse.
Sitting uncomfortably in the Law Review Office with the Kid, who has apologized to both Dan and Aaron for his behavior in the Attack of the 2Ls, but not to me, who he groped. Phone call, it's Rick. "The internet isn't working. What do I do?"
"With my Spidey senses, I see that the modem needs to be reconfigured?" How the hell should I know? My fix for everything is to restart my computer.
Sancho Panza swears there were "no signs at all" in the building where he fell. Cut to Lola, watching him walk past a sign in the surveillance video. "Oh, you mean in the main part of the building? Oh yeah, but that's not what I meant. I meant the other part of the building." And the only sentence he can repeat is, "yeah, he said 'that stupid "B," she just mopped the floor." If hear the phrase "that stupid 'B'" one more time, I am going to suck on the exposed wires from where they're renovating the elevators.
Phone call. Collect from city jail. Neck Crack has landed himself in the big house. I grin. Things are lookin' up.
I woke up Monday, with my back and neck completely fucked. What was Lola doing Sunday night you ask? Sleeping in her own bed. The two friends who slept on my couches? Slept perfectly, woke up raving about my comfy couches. I call shenanigans. So, I was already fairly cranky when Computie started rebelling. I was up until after 2 and then awakened by my neighbors moving shadily out of their apartment at 6 a.m. At first I thought they were burglars, and then decided that Finn was bigger and stronger and closer to the living room, so I tried to sleep. And then realized that someone was getting the hell out of Dodge. Sweet.
With no apparent cause for this neck/back evil, I have been informed that it's probably stress. Well, that makes sense. I'm like 9 months from graduation and job prospects are lookin' bleak, and all the men I know have their own kind of special weird and crazy.
Every time I think about this shit, my neck seizes up more. No fucking wonder. Law school does not lend itself to happiness. We're all dead tired, overworked, stressed, malnourished, and fighting the first battles of the war against alcoholism and substance abuse.
Sitting uncomfortably in the Law Review Office with the Kid, who has apologized to both Dan and Aaron for his behavior in the Attack of the 2Ls, but not to me, who he groped. Phone call, it's Rick. "The internet isn't working. What do I do?"
"With my Spidey senses, I see that the modem needs to be reconfigured?" How the hell should I know? My fix for everything is to restart my computer.
Sancho Panza swears there were "no signs at all" in the building where he fell. Cut to Lola, watching him walk past a sign in the surveillance video. "Oh, you mean in the main part of the building? Oh yeah, but that's not what I meant. I meant the other part of the building." And the only sentence he can repeat is, "yeah, he said 'that stupid "B," she just mopped the floor." If hear the phrase "that stupid 'B'" one more time, I am going to suck on the exposed wires from where they're renovating the elevators.
Phone call. Collect from city jail. Neck Crack has landed himself in the big house. I grin. Things are lookin' up.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Fatal Attraction
Your days of reading The Penal Gallery may be numbered dear readers (I know you're both devastated), because my days may be numbered. Finn's batshit crazy ex-girlfriend, Crazy, is coming to visit this weekend. This means two things: 1) there are people crazier than me and 2) they are coming to visit. Presumably to see the kittens, sleep with Finn, and kill me. Probably in that order. Expect to hear from me barricaded in my room Sunday night with my dresser pushed in front of my door. (Anyone want to take me out of the house on Sunday night? Anyone? Bueller?)
On a related note, don't drink and text. You ever get drunk and forget? It happened to me. I returned home from the bar(s) on Wednesday night (don't judge me) and got drunk with Finn while we discussed my imminent demise and my apparent inability to give it away. (For the record, he is amazed and saddened by my inability to close the deal. In my defense, I've been thwarted by circumstances outside my control). I sent a cryptic text message regarding my imminent demise. I never even got a "you're nuts" message back. You would think I'd learn, but if you thought that, you probably haven't been reading all that long.
For those who doubt that God likes to mess with me, reference the hour I spent lined up with 3 out of the last 5 men I've hooked up with at a school event. It was not a fair, it was a parade of all my drunken escapades. My friends laughed at me and none of them knew why. Thanks, God.
I'm rambling, which is a good way to avoid the things I should be doing. I should be finishing a memo on adverse possession. Lame. I should be redacting my writing sample so I can get a job. Tedious. I should be applying for jobs. Scary. I should be reading for class. Boring.
I have three binders worth of cite-checking assignments on the desk right now. I am staring them down, hoping that they will compile themselves if I look at them the right way. I somehow doubt this is going to happen. This post has not had the requisite amount of snark; so, I'm going to make up for that by complaining right now:
I wanted to be as clear as possible and give as much direction as I could to the incoming staff members who were anxious as a whore in church about their assignments. We had the managing department send out a spiffy checklist detailing exactly what they were to do, we held cite-checking class, I sent the world's longest, most detailed email about the particulars of the assignment and several members of the e-board donated a block of three hours to answer questions at a help session. Of course, most of the staff was freaking out anyway, like we were going to torture those who forgot to put BlueBook rules in the margins. Except for one person, who apparently knows how everything should be run anyway. I'm not sure that she knows that I was the one giving out the assignment, or maybe she thinks little things like tact are beneath her because she complains, in the office, in front of me, in this nasty condescending tone: "Yeah, this entire assignment was an exercise in confusion." Like we didn't know what we were doing and fucked up the instructional process. I'm sorry, maybe your uppity ass could have come to the three hours' worth of help time where someone could have shown you exactly what to do. Or, you could have emailed for clarification instead of taking no iniative to figure out what you were doing and then bitching that you didn't have somone holding your hand.
I kinda hope she fucks it up so badly that I have to email her and ask her why she didn't come in for help since she clearly had no idea what to do.
On a related note, don't drink and text. You ever get drunk and forget? It happened to me. I returned home from the bar(s) on Wednesday night (don't judge me) and got drunk with Finn while we discussed my imminent demise and my apparent inability to give it away. (For the record, he is amazed and saddened by my inability to close the deal. In my defense, I've been thwarted by circumstances outside my control). I sent a cryptic text message regarding my imminent demise. I never even got a "you're nuts" message back. You would think I'd learn, but if you thought that, you probably haven't been reading all that long.
For those who doubt that God likes to mess with me, reference the hour I spent lined up with 3 out of the last 5 men I've hooked up with at a school event. It was not a fair, it was a parade of all my drunken escapades. My friends laughed at me and none of them knew why. Thanks, God.
I'm rambling, which is a good way to avoid the things I should be doing. I should be finishing a memo on adverse possession. Lame. I should be redacting my writing sample so I can get a job. Tedious. I should be applying for jobs. Scary. I should be reading for class. Boring.
I have three binders worth of cite-checking assignments on the desk right now. I am staring them down, hoping that they will compile themselves if I look at them the right way. I somehow doubt this is going to happen. This post has not had the requisite amount of snark; so, I'm going to make up for that by complaining right now:
I wanted to be as clear as possible and give as much direction as I could to the incoming staff members who were anxious as a whore in church about their assignments. We had the managing department send out a spiffy checklist detailing exactly what they were to do, we held cite-checking class, I sent the world's longest, most detailed email about the particulars of the assignment and several members of the e-board donated a block of three hours to answer questions at a help session. Of course, most of the staff was freaking out anyway, like we were going to torture those who forgot to put BlueBook rules in the margins. Except for one person, who apparently knows how everything should be run anyway. I'm not sure that she knows that I was the one giving out the assignment, or maybe she thinks little things like tact are beneath her because she complains, in the office, in front of me, in this nasty condescending tone: "Yeah, this entire assignment was an exercise in confusion." Like we didn't know what we were doing and fucked up the instructional process. I'm sorry, maybe your uppity ass could have come to the three hours' worth of help time where someone could have shown you exactly what to do. Or, you could have emailed for clarification instead of taking no iniative to figure out what you were doing and then bitching that you didn't have somone holding your hand.
I kinda hope she fucks it up so badly that I have to email her and ask her why she didn't come in for help since she clearly had no idea what to do.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Law and Disorder, Season 3, episode 1: Attack of the 2Ls
Nikki always says I need a reality show. And she already has the name picked out: Law and Disorder. Given my talent for getting into stupid situations and making poor decisions, I think that it might be as compelling as say, Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. And there would be no STDs.
Finn is out of town this weekend, which means that I had to come up with lots of trouble to get into so I could regale him when he gets back tonight. With our kitty! (I'm getting a black cat. I'm well aware of the comic value. I'm sure there's a joke there, but I'm too lazy to make it).
Last weekend of "freedom" before school starts, and last year begins. The theme of the weekend is that the 2Ls are insane and I might be turning into some sort of sociopath. Thursday was bar night, which was an amazing success, before some self-righteous 2L got his panties in a twist about the fact that I have not, in fact, put on a hair shirt and thrown myself on a funeral pyre in mourning for the artist-formerly-known-as-Priest. Um? Excuse me? He's not dead, he dumped me. Apparently, me dancing at a bar is a problem. I guess we're in the little town from Footloose now? Luckily, I didn't hear the original tirade, because I was in a towering fury as it was and might have planted my five-inch-heel up his tight little ass. As it was, I found myself revealing some vaguely sociopathic tendencies.
I was the D.D. and so, I only had 2 and a half drinks, and an asthma attack later that night. Fun! I blame the meddlesome 2L. Ironically, I also had a raging hangover. I felt the way I did after Nikki's wedding, and I barely had anything to drink. Unfair. Finn awoke to me holding onto the toilet for dear life at 7:30 in the morning. I then had to go to orientation for the new staff members, terrified that I would have to vom again and none of them would respect me after that. I did not vom. Win!
After Day 2 of orientation, we had a social event and the 2Ls struck again. Everything was lovely at the actual social event, and then a group of us went across the street to another bar. The 2Ls did not join us. This made us sad, that the 2Ls are all sedate and married and don't want to hang out with us. This changed when a group of them came in. Mostly, they were cool, and one of them decided to be interesting and drunk enough for all of them. He greets Dan, our SENIOR NOTES EDITOR, and thus, this kid's BOSS who's in charge of minor things, like, the paper the kid has to write for Law Review credit, by shouting "You crazy motherfucker!" Which I thought was bold for someone he had only known for a day. And then he decides to switch up his term of endearment to "you son of a bitch!" Luckily for him, Dan thinks this is mildly amusing, though stupid. But this kid didn't know that. What if Dan had no sense of humor?
I guess we're partially to blame for what happened next. Dan and I decide the kid should be messed with. Kid asks me to dance. And we all get up to dance, everything is fine. I give him some shit about the dangers of drinking and swearing at E-board members. Kid gets...decidedly friendly. I was on some sort of kinder, gentler Lola kick and decide that starting drama by full-on bitch-slapping a staff member would not be a good start to the year and Megan would be made at me. Besides, he was drinking. I decide to take the calm way around this. "Um, you're being very forward for a 2L." The hint is not taken. "Yes, I am. I go after what I want." I try again. "So, you know I'm not going to give you breaks on your assignments or anything right?" No joy. "That's not what I'm after. You're what I'm after." Or something to that effect. If not for the fact that this kid is now backing me against the bar rail, I would almost admire his nerve. He's just met me and...he has to report to me on his cite-checking assignment and he's trying to get his groove thing on. He breaks out some cheesy-line about......oh, who the fuck knows and I announce that I want my beer so I break away and he yells after me to promise to come back. Which is when I run into Dan, who informs me that when the Kid started to back into the wall, he almost came over to intervene before things got "out of hand." Chivalrous. Instead, he thought, "Nah. It's Lola, she can handle herself." And, apparently, he thought it might be kinda funny to see what I would do to the Kid. Thanks, pal. I give him the details of my conversation with the Kid, at which point, Dan starts laughing like a hyena. And, then, he and Aaron get randomly pissed about the way this Kid disrespected my authority and was such a skeeze and blatantly came on to an editor on his first day on staff. Though, it must be admitted that Dan occassionally laughed like a hyena. The word "inappropriate" was tossed about drunkenly, which, in hindsight is kinda funny.
I shook the Kid and left the bar (I took a cab, thanks Elisa for the tip-off! Even though there was no way I could have driven, cops or no cops) and did the second vaguely sociopathic thing I'd done in as many days. Except for this vaguely sociopathic thing was nearly as bad as the first and again, not my idea. It's not that what I've been doing is necessarily so bad, it's just the absolute lack of remorse I have about any of the moral implications of my actions that's a little weird. I also have stopped caring about consequences. I'm not exactly sure what's behind it, because I do normally have a limit, but I think that my general apathy about my personal life could go a long way towards explaining it.
The moral of the story: be careful what you wish for, because 2Ls might just show up to give it to you.
Finn is out of town this weekend, which means that I had to come up with lots of trouble to get into so I could regale him when he gets back tonight. With our kitty! (I'm getting a black cat. I'm well aware of the comic value. I'm sure there's a joke there, but I'm too lazy to make it).
Last weekend of "freedom" before school starts, and last year begins. The theme of the weekend is that the 2Ls are insane and I might be turning into some sort of sociopath. Thursday was bar night, which was an amazing success, before some self-righteous 2L got his panties in a twist about the fact that I have not, in fact, put on a hair shirt and thrown myself on a funeral pyre in mourning for the artist-formerly-known-as-Priest. Um? Excuse me? He's not dead, he dumped me. Apparently, me dancing at a bar is a problem. I guess we're in the little town from Footloose now? Luckily, I didn't hear the original tirade, because I was in a towering fury as it was and might have planted my five-inch-heel up his tight little ass. As it was, I found myself revealing some vaguely sociopathic tendencies.
I was the D.D. and so, I only had 2 and a half drinks, and an asthma attack later that night. Fun! I blame the meddlesome 2L. Ironically, I also had a raging hangover. I felt the way I did after Nikki's wedding, and I barely had anything to drink. Unfair. Finn awoke to me holding onto the toilet for dear life at 7:30 in the morning. I then had to go to orientation for the new staff members, terrified that I would have to vom again and none of them would respect me after that. I did not vom. Win!
After Day 2 of orientation, we had a social event and the 2Ls struck again. Everything was lovely at the actual social event, and then a group of us went across the street to another bar. The 2Ls did not join us. This made us sad, that the 2Ls are all sedate and married and don't want to hang out with us. This changed when a group of them came in. Mostly, they were cool, and one of them decided to be interesting and drunk enough for all of them. He greets Dan, our SENIOR NOTES EDITOR, and thus, this kid's BOSS who's in charge of minor things, like, the paper the kid has to write for Law Review credit, by shouting "You crazy motherfucker!" Which I thought was bold for someone he had only known for a day. And then he decides to switch up his term of endearment to "you son of a bitch!" Luckily for him, Dan thinks this is mildly amusing, though stupid. But this kid didn't know that. What if Dan had no sense of humor?
I guess we're partially to blame for what happened next. Dan and I decide the kid should be messed with. Kid asks me to dance. And we all get up to dance, everything is fine. I give him some shit about the dangers of drinking and swearing at E-board members. Kid gets...decidedly friendly. I was on some sort of kinder, gentler Lola kick and decide that starting drama by full-on bitch-slapping a staff member would not be a good start to the year and Megan would be made at me. Besides, he was drinking. I decide to take the calm way around this. "Um, you're being very forward for a 2L." The hint is not taken. "Yes, I am. I go after what I want." I try again. "So, you know I'm not going to give you breaks on your assignments or anything right?" No joy. "That's not what I'm after. You're what I'm after." Or something to that effect. If not for the fact that this kid is now backing me against the bar rail, I would almost admire his nerve. He's just met me and...he has to report to me on his cite-checking assignment and he's trying to get his groove thing on. He breaks out some cheesy-line about......oh, who the fuck knows and I announce that I want my beer so I break away and he yells after me to promise to come back. Which is when I run into Dan, who informs me that when the Kid started to back into the wall, he almost came over to intervene before things got "out of hand." Chivalrous. Instead, he thought, "Nah. It's Lola, she can handle herself." And, apparently, he thought it might be kinda funny to see what I would do to the Kid. Thanks, pal. I give him the details of my conversation with the Kid, at which point, Dan starts laughing like a hyena. And, then, he and Aaron get randomly pissed about the way this Kid disrespected my authority and was such a skeeze and blatantly came on to an editor on his first day on staff. Though, it must be admitted that Dan occassionally laughed like a hyena. The word "inappropriate" was tossed about drunkenly, which, in hindsight is kinda funny.
I shook the Kid and left the bar (I took a cab, thanks Elisa for the tip-off! Even though there was no way I could have driven, cops or no cops) and did the second vaguely sociopathic thing I'd done in as many days. Except for this vaguely sociopathic thing was nearly as bad as the first and again, not my idea. It's not that what I've been doing is necessarily so bad, it's just the absolute lack of remorse I have about any of the moral implications of my actions that's a little weird. I also have stopped caring about consequences. I'm not exactly sure what's behind it, because I do normally have a limit, but I think that my general apathy about my personal life could go a long way towards explaining it.
The moral of the story: be careful what you wish for, because 2Ls might just show up to give it to you.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Say Hello to Your Friends
People are piling back into the pit. School starts on Monday. Which means this week is a strange combination of frantically trying to get ready for the semester while drinking on weeeknights in a desperate attempt to pretend we still have a summer and social lives.
Nikki's first day back to work (after a booze-fueled reunion on the patio and at Casa Lola) was yesterday. We spent the day gossiping, occassionally working and enjoying the amazingness that Kati introduced us to: Whatclaudiawore. An amazing journey through the fashion of The Babysitters Club through snarkiness. This prompted us to begin singing the Babysitters Club theme song (say hello to your friends Babysitters Club! Say hello to the people who care...) We also reminisced about Sweet Valley High. Which apparently is being turned into a musical. Also, how many times did we need to hear about their "perfect size six" figures? As if teenage girls don't have enough image problems. And as if women in their twenties didn't either, they are re-releasing the books, with the twins' size reduced to a four. Because six is way fat. Also, Elizabeth is blogging? WTF Francine Pascal? Are you stealing my life? God! Because that thing where the psycho-girl who looked exactly like me moved into town and tried to kill me or my twin to replace me and then her identical twin shows up for round 2 a year later totes happened. Only she clearly succeeded because as we all know, there is currently only one Lola... What happened to the two psycho look-alikes? Never you mind....
Damn I wish I had more summer vacation so I could reread the whole Elizabeth-commits-manslaughter-except-she-didn't-cause-she's-perfect-and-has-a-perfect-size-six-figure-don't-forget storyline. But I have to get back to the grind, which means a mock interview. Mock interviews have all of the stress of trying to come up with good questions and get dressed without ripping a hole in your stockings without any of the possible payoff. Even when I make a good-faith effort to prepare for my fake interview I am thwarted. Most recently by MartindaleHubbell, which now needs maintenance.
Dear MartindaleHubbell, You promised to be done with your website maintenance at 10:00 EST. It is now 11:30 and you're not done yet. Fail. Get up and running so I can can properly stalk my mock interviewer and get back to important shit. Like whatclaudiawore and Wii Fit.
Love,
Lola
Nikki's first day back to work (after a booze-fueled reunion on the patio and at Casa Lola) was yesterday. We spent the day gossiping, occassionally working and enjoying the amazingness that Kati introduced us to: Whatclaudiawore. An amazing journey through the fashion of The Babysitters Club through snarkiness. This prompted us to begin singing the Babysitters Club theme song (say hello to your friends Babysitters Club! Say hello to the people who care...) We also reminisced about Sweet Valley High. Which apparently is being turned into a musical. Also, how many times did we need to hear about their "perfect size six" figures? As if teenage girls don't have enough image problems. And as if women in their twenties didn't either, they are re-releasing the books, with the twins' size reduced to a four. Because six is way fat. Also, Elizabeth is blogging? WTF Francine Pascal? Are you stealing my life? God! Because that thing where the psycho-girl who looked exactly like me moved into town and tried to kill me or my twin to replace me and then her identical twin shows up for round 2 a year later totes happened. Only she clearly succeeded because as we all know, there is currently only one Lola... What happened to the two psycho look-alikes? Never you mind....
Damn I wish I had more summer vacation so I could reread the whole Elizabeth-commits-manslaughter-except-she-didn't-cause-she's-perfect-and-has-a-perfect-size-six-figure-don't-forget storyline. But I have to get back to the grind, which means a mock interview. Mock interviews have all of the stress of trying to come up with good questions and get dressed without ripping a hole in your stockings without any of the possible payoff. Even when I make a good-faith effort to prepare for my fake interview I am thwarted. Most recently by MartindaleHubbell, which now needs maintenance.
Dear MartindaleHubbell, You promised to be done with your website maintenance at 10:00 EST. It is now 11:30 and you're not done yet. Fail. Get up and running so I can can properly stalk my mock interviewer and get back to important shit. Like whatclaudiawore and Wii Fit.
Love,
Lola
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wedding Smashers or How Lola Got Her Groove Back
So, once upon the last time I posted, I was waxing nostalgic about my former drunken/slutty/fabulous glory and lamenting about how those days had passed. While giving me a pep talk, my roomate, Steve, the wily Finn (hereinafter sometimes referred to as "Finn") made a surprisingly Lola-esque speech. I responded by saying "you know, when I was alive, I would have made a similar speech." Eek (by the way, I got a roomate. I have company, someone to cook for and it solves the problem I have turning on my air conditioning).
So, Nikki got married (and it was all beautiful and too perfect for even me to make fun of, so I'll just stick to the things that I can make fun of). I arrived late to rehearsal, after making an emergency stop-off at a bridal salon near my hometown on an emergency errand, changing in their changing room, shaving my legs in the parking lot and getting stuck in traffic trying to avoid rush-hour traffic. I was rewarded by getting the Stink-eye from the wedding gestapo.
The kindly looking church ladies who run the weddings at this church are possibly escaped war criminals. But slightly less organized. No booze in the wedding. Ok. No booze before the wedding. No smell of booze before the wedding. Go easy on the mouthwash, because you will smell like a drunken whore and God will turn his back on you.
My partner and I got confused by the fact that the "Blue" line looked green to him and we tried to walk to a different blue line for the start of our walk down the aisle. This earned us a sharply hissed "the blue line. stop. STOP!" and a lifetime of shame. We dispersed, vowing to be perfect the next day.
And I almost was. Despite the fact that there was traffic on the 75 at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, I got to the salon on time for mimosas (suck it, wedding gestapo). And that's when I realized that I'd left one tiny thing at my mom's house: my dress. *facepalm**mimosa sloshes.* Luckily, Holly had stayed the night and was willing to drive it to me. In appreciation for her hardcore bestfriendness, she will receive, as a token of my appreciation, this handsome shout-out.
And then, things progressed. With the exception of the flower girl falling off the pew in the middle of the ceremony, things went off without a hitch and we even pleased the wedding gestapo. Until, of course, we started to run over our time in the church taking pictures. God only has a half an hour for you after you receive the sacrament of marriage. But, Nik pulled it off and looked FAB-U-LOUS in her shades while I crawled under her dress in front of the sanctuary to bustle her skirt.
I'm not sure, but I think the trouble started for me when I got into the limo, demanded Nikki's brother pour me a shot of Jager and screamed at the groomsmen "Who wants to man up and take a shot with me?" The rest of my evening really follows along those lines. Under strict orders not to arrive at the reception drunk, we still managed to polish off two bottles of champagne, 36 beers, and most of a fifth each of Jack and Jager (you have no power now, wedding gestapo!) But, importantly, we did not break a promise. I made it all the way through dinner without getting drunk. And then, I danced with my girls, which bought me another hour or so of relative sobriety. Kind of.
Lola was drunk and happy and has nothing to lose. This combination, paired with hot guys and easy access to hotel rooms, is a recipe for trouble. And by trouble, I mean awesomeness. I noticed a cutie, and then engaged in stealthy surveillance. At least, I think I was stealthy. But no matter, stealth went out the window when I sidled up to the bar and asked the cutie "Are you, or are you not here with a date?" by way of an opening.
For reference, the possible presence of a date was a matter of dispute at some point during the evening. (For reference, see me confronting an usher and saying "Here alone? Then what's that?" The question was resolved in much in my favor as I needed, and so, I said something either suggestive or challenging and walked away (Dude, drunk Lola had a plan).
For reference, there is no good place to make out at reception halls. I apologize to all my friends who may have been frightened while walking to their cars. On the upside, I went outside to smoke/work my magic and completely missed the bouqet toss. Score!
I will skip some of the more incriminating details, but I will say this: Fitness rooms open with your room key, even after hours. And they're damn convenient. I rated it highly on my guest satisfaction survey (yes, I'm serious). And, they brought up one of the all-time great questions:
"I wonder if there are cameras in this room? I wonder if we could get the tape?"
Drunk Lola knows how to take care of a girl and she always chooses/executes well.
Of course, I was up at three hours later clutching the toilet for dear life. And I spent the entire next day trying my best to die. I failed. I think. Another special shout-out goes to my roomates who bought me tums, packed me up, and didn't laugh too hard when I had to wear my sunglasses inside. And drive back home with a barf bag on my lap.
Totally worth it.
So, Nikki got married (and it was all beautiful and too perfect for even me to make fun of, so I'll just stick to the things that I can make fun of). I arrived late to rehearsal, after making an emergency stop-off at a bridal salon near my hometown on an emergency errand, changing in their changing room, shaving my legs in the parking lot and getting stuck in traffic trying to avoid rush-hour traffic. I was rewarded by getting the Stink-eye from the wedding gestapo.
The kindly looking church ladies who run the weddings at this church are possibly escaped war criminals. But slightly less organized. No booze in the wedding. Ok. No booze before the wedding. No smell of booze before the wedding. Go easy on the mouthwash, because you will smell like a drunken whore and God will turn his back on you.
My partner and I got confused by the fact that the "Blue" line looked green to him and we tried to walk to a different blue line for the start of our walk down the aisle. This earned us a sharply hissed "the blue line. stop. STOP!" and a lifetime of shame. We dispersed, vowing to be perfect the next day.
And I almost was. Despite the fact that there was traffic on the 75 at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, I got to the salon on time for mimosas (suck it, wedding gestapo). And that's when I realized that I'd left one tiny thing at my mom's house: my dress. *facepalm**mimosa sloshes.* Luckily, Holly had stayed the night and was willing to drive it to me. In appreciation for her hardcore bestfriendness, she will receive, as a token of my appreciation, this handsome shout-out.
And then, things progressed. With the exception of the flower girl falling off the pew in the middle of the ceremony, things went off without a hitch and we even pleased the wedding gestapo. Until, of course, we started to run over our time in the church taking pictures. God only has a half an hour for you after you receive the sacrament of marriage. But, Nik pulled it off and looked FAB-U-LOUS in her shades while I crawled under her dress in front of the sanctuary to bustle her skirt.
I'm not sure, but I think the trouble started for me when I got into the limo, demanded Nikki's brother pour me a shot of Jager and screamed at the groomsmen "Who wants to man up and take a shot with me?" The rest of my evening really follows along those lines. Under strict orders not to arrive at the reception drunk, we still managed to polish off two bottles of champagne, 36 beers, and most of a fifth each of Jack and Jager (you have no power now, wedding gestapo!) But, importantly, we did not break a promise. I made it all the way through dinner without getting drunk. And then, I danced with my girls, which bought me another hour or so of relative sobriety. Kind of.
Lola was drunk and happy and has nothing to lose. This combination, paired with hot guys and easy access to hotel rooms, is a recipe for trouble. And by trouble, I mean awesomeness. I noticed a cutie, and then engaged in stealthy surveillance. At least, I think I was stealthy. But no matter, stealth went out the window when I sidled up to the bar and asked the cutie "Are you, or are you not here with a date?" by way of an opening.
For reference, the possible presence of a date was a matter of dispute at some point during the evening. (For reference, see me confronting an usher and saying "Here alone? Then what's that?" The question was resolved in much in my favor as I needed, and so, I said something either suggestive or challenging and walked away (Dude, drunk Lola had a plan).
For reference, there is no good place to make out at reception halls. I apologize to all my friends who may have been frightened while walking to their cars. On the upside, I went outside to smoke/work my magic and completely missed the bouqet toss. Score!
I will skip some of the more incriminating details, but I will say this: Fitness rooms open with your room key, even after hours. And they're damn convenient. I rated it highly on my guest satisfaction survey (yes, I'm serious). And, they brought up one of the all-time great questions:
"I wonder if there are cameras in this room? I wonder if we could get the tape?"
Drunk Lola knows how to take care of a girl and she always chooses/executes well.
Of course, I was up at three hours later clutching the toilet for dear life. And I spent the entire next day trying my best to die. I failed. I think. Another special shout-out goes to my roomates who bought me tums, packed me up, and didn't laugh too hard when I had to wear my sunglasses inside. And drive back home with a barf bag on my lap.
Totally worth it.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Ghosts of Random Hookups Past
This is not a city. It is a diaorama of my drunken mistakes and failed relationships.
Two months ago, I started seeing mirages. The mirages alternated between The-Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Priest and his predecessor, MuteButton. The mirages have now become living, breathing ghosts of my drunken mistakes. Driving home (finally!) after what amounted to a quiet day at work and supremely irritating errands, I see, walking down a street he had no business walking down, a guy that I once tounge-wrestled on a beach after downing a pint of vodka. In broad daylight. Then, Chelsea slung me over her shoulder and threw me on the drunk bus. I sometimes think that I am paying now for the awesomeness of my former life. And it was awesome. For reference, please see the time we did margaritas and skinny dipping in my apartment pool on a Thursday afternoon.
Um. He doesn't LIVE here, and as I understand it (since I've not spoken to him in years), he has a kinda-important test to take tomorrow. WHAT IN THE HELL IS HE DOING HERE? Aparently, awesomeness. Over. Universe paying me back. Now.
I know that no matter what my annoyances are, they are nothing compared to the world of pain that those adventurers who are braving the dragon called the bar exam (shudder) are going through. However, for their amusement, some random bitching.
My sleep-in day was cruelly stolen from me. We had an early deposition. Well, not really early. 10 a.m. Which is not terrible. Except Rick wanted me there at 9. Which, again, is not terrible, except I was up all night the day before finishing a Law Review assignment (summa time!) So I got there promptly at 9, dressed and ready, where I proceeded to do my important duties: make a pot of coffee, sneak out for a muffin, and find Spongebob on Hulu. (I can't make this shit up, I had a ten-year-old to occupy. Law offices are not known for their fun play materials)
Interrogatories with Sancho Panza. Who is apparently unable to answer almost any question about himself. Including whether or not he's ever had any major surgeries. He'd cancelled three times before this. The other day, I call and his long-suffering wife picks up. I ask if he is available at 11:00, being retired, I assume so. She sounds affronted "He doesn't get up until noon you know." How dare me, try to wake his majesty before his ladies in waiting have the bluebirds ready to sing to him in his morning bath.
"Have you ever been involved in a lawsuit as a plaintiff or defendant before?"
"Oh no."
"Ok, so you've never sued anyone or been sued?"
"Oh, yeah, I sued a guy a few years ago."
We just got a new toner cartridge. I bet I could mix some of it in with my coffee.
Like a fucking idiot, I waited until the last minute to get my dressed hemmed for Nikki's wedding (I fail, Nikki, I just fail). So, instead of getting an appointment at David's, I had to take it to a local tailor that got good reviews. I take off in the direction of the address. I drive for 30 minutes, up and down Grand River. Finally, I punch the address into my GPS. According to the friendly phantom-voice, I am ONE minute away. The little finish flag arrives and disappears. No cleaners. I try again. The screen shows me driving in an actual CIRCLE around the dot. I turn around in the Meijer's parking lot and call the number. "I can't fiiiind you," I whine.
"Do you know where the Meijer's is?" Says helpful tailor.
"Yeeeeeeeees."
Are you ready for this?
Yeah, they're IN the Meijer.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Summa Time
Mid-semester externship seminar, which is basically an excuse for the administration to make sure we're not dropping acid at our unpaid externships and for career services to earn its paychecks during summer. I walk in after a day of working on no-sleep to partake in the traditional feast of subs that have been sitting out for a few hours and I run into: Gnome Hooker. She's everywhere I have to be. Like some sort of perverse, unwanted Visa card.
One of the rising 2Ls responds that what surprised her most at her externship is the fact that the legal system doesn't always work the way you want. "Like, as law students, we like, have a strong sense of what's right and wrong. And sometimes things turn out wrong." REALLY? I thought they beat that starry-eyed idealism out of you in first semester. First year is supposed to be about learning to brief cases, write memos, outline, and having your soul crushed slowly in a vise.
Last week wasn't a whole lot better. I got home from work on Wednesday and took an hour off before studying. I woke up two hours later with a fever. How I got the flu in the middle of July is anybody's guess, but if I had to take a stab at it, I would say that God knew my final was on Friday and saw an opportunity. I spent two days laying on the couch and wishing for death. I was told that I could take a make-up pass/fail, but after I hung up, I realized I couldn't take a required class pass/fail. When I emailed to double-check, I didn't get a response. I was way more nervous about not taking the final and relying on the benevolence of the adminstration to sort it out, so I took the final. Luckily, the fever broke before test time. Un-luckily, I didn't know there was a multiple choice section until the proctors told me to take out my scantron.
I did get to see Harry Potter (and Mama Roo, Anne, and the Ya-Yas) and that took the sting out of it. I also learned that I could make Jennie laugh inappropriately in the middle of the climax of the movie. It was surprisingly easy: Dumbledore takes out a knife and cuts his hand. I lean over and whisper "We all know you can't get blood out your palm that easy." Bam! (She knows, we've tried). She's a lightweight.
One of the rising 2Ls responds that what surprised her most at her externship is the fact that the legal system doesn't always work the way you want. "Like, as law students, we like, have a strong sense of what's right and wrong. And sometimes things turn out wrong." REALLY? I thought they beat that starry-eyed idealism out of you in first semester. First year is supposed to be about learning to brief cases, write memos, outline, and having your soul crushed slowly in a vise.
Last week wasn't a whole lot better. I got home from work on Wednesday and took an hour off before studying. I woke up two hours later with a fever. How I got the flu in the middle of July is anybody's guess, but if I had to take a stab at it, I would say that God knew my final was on Friday and saw an opportunity. I spent two days laying on the couch and wishing for death. I was told that I could take a make-up pass/fail, but after I hung up, I realized I couldn't take a required class pass/fail. When I emailed to double-check, I didn't get a response. I was way more nervous about not taking the final and relying on the benevolence of the adminstration to sort it out, so I took the final. Luckily, the fever broke before test time. Un-luckily, I didn't know there was a multiple choice section until the proctors told me to take out my scantron.
I did get to see Harry Potter (and Mama Roo, Anne, and the Ya-Yas) and that took the sting out of it. I also learned that I could make Jennie laugh inappropriately in the middle of the climax of the movie. It was surprisingly easy: Dumbledore takes out a knife and cuts his hand. I lean over and whisper "We all know you can't get blood out your palm that easy." Bam! (She knows, we've tried). She's a lightweight.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Who Says You Can't Go Home?
Drove to my hometown for two of my favorite occassions: Annual Spree Fireworks and Ya-Ya missions. Over drinks and burgers the following texts are exchanged:
Lola: I'm in the L. On a Ya-Ya mission of justice.
Steve: Ya-ya?
Lola: Trust me, the less you know, the better.
The refrain for the night: The less you know, the better. Also, "You'll happy later if you weren't here now."
I had an exciting chance to drive fast (we played "Hostages") and scream "Abort! Abort!" which I really enjoyed.
A word about Hostages: it's like a scavenger hunt for your teammates. The other team blindfolds them and drops them off. You have to find your hostages and get back to the meeting point before the other team. We lost, but we did have the best moment: We pull up to a stop light and the windows are down, I'm smoking, the March of the Empire is blaring and we have two people sitting in the backseat with shirts over our heads. The look on the guy next to us's face was priceless.
Our mission of justice had to be rescheduled though (that was the "ABORT!" part).
I also "got" to clean my mom's garage. In 90 degree heat. Blah.
The best part though, was the return of the pig races at my hometown's annual carnival. This year, the pigs SWAM! And one played the piano. Amazing. Jennie and I have a deep love for the pig races. This year we marked the triumphant return of the races (after a three-year hiatus) with pizza and tasty alcholic beverages. Sadly, I did not get my traditional sausage and pepper sandwich, as the Italian American club no longer has a tent. Boo. Baby pigs swimming in a race: Epic win.
Overheard in town:
"Am I going to have to buy pizza from the firefighters?"
"Well, we know how much you like firefighters."
"Our soul-mates are at the Spree!"
"This year, the finale is going to spell out '59. Oh God, that joke is 9 years old. Let's take a moment to reflect on that." (Yeah, apparently, we have jokes that are 9 years old. On the upside, it's been 9 years and we still like each other enough to have a running joke).
For reasons unknown to man or god, Mama Lo had a gross of glo bracelets in her back seat. Jennie and I brought them to entertain the troops. Andy's little sister and her friends, who are like 20, were considerably more restrained than us in the use of the glo-bracelets. We, on the other hand (older than 20) made outfits out of them (I made a rainbow brite bracelet) and used about a 10-pack (ok, more than 10) apiece. Which led to the following exchange:
Fitz: You guys look like princesses of Egypt!
Lola: Uh, space Egypt.
Now I'm reading my last assignment for the summer session. Woot.
Lola: I'm in the L. On a Ya-Ya mission of justice.
Steve: Ya-ya?
Lola: Trust me, the less you know, the better.
The refrain for the night: The less you know, the better. Also, "You'll happy later if you weren't here now."
I had an exciting chance to drive fast (we played "Hostages") and scream "Abort! Abort!" which I really enjoyed.
A word about Hostages: it's like a scavenger hunt for your teammates. The other team blindfolds them and drops them off. You have to find your hostages and get back to the meeting point before the other team. We lost, but we did have the best moment: We pull up to a stop light and the windows are down, I'm smoking, the March of the Empire is blaring and we have two people sitting in the backseat with shirts over our heads. The look on the guy next to us's face was priceless.
Our mission of justice had to be rescheduled though (that was the "ABORT!" part).
I also "got" to clean my mom's garage. In 90 degree heat. Blah.
The best part though, was the return of the pig races at my hometown's annual carnival. This year, the pigs SWAM! And one played the piano. Amazing. Jennie and I have a deep love for the pig races. This year we marked the triumphant return of the races (after a three-year hiatus) with pizza and tasty alcholic beverages. Sadly, I did not get my traditional sausage and pepper sandwich, as the Italian American club no longer has a tent. Boo. Baby pigs swimming in a race: Epic win.
Overheard in town:
"Am I going to have to buy pizza from the firefighters?"
"Well, we know how much you like firefighters."
"Our soul-mates are at the Spree!"
"This year, the finale is going to spell out '59. Oh God, that joke is 9 years old. Let's take a moment to reflect on that." (Yeah, apparently, we have jokes that are 9 years old. On the upside, it's been 9 years and we still like each other enough to have a running joke).
For reasons unknown to man or god, Mama Lo had a gross of glo bracelets in her back seat. Jennie and I brought them to entertain the troops. Andy's little sister and her friends, who are like 20, were considerably more restrained than us in the use of the glo-bracelets. We, on the other hand (older than 20) made outfits out of them (I made a rainbow brite bracelet) and used about a 10-pack (ok, more than 10) apiece. Which led to the following exchange:
Fitz: You guys look like princesses of Egypt!
Lola: Uh, space Egypt.
Now I'm reading my last assignment for the summer session. Woot.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
McFrickin' Code of Silence
Once, years ago, my friends and I ruminated on one of the great questions of life: If you saw one of your friends in a porn, would you watch?
Years, hours of web-surfing, and many bottles of alcohol later, I have an answer. Not only would we watch, we'd desperately try to get an internet signal in the boonies to take a peek.
During a weekend with the girls a few months ago, we did that very thing, upon finding out that a former mutual acquaintance had posed in his birthday suit for a porn site. It was surprising, given what little I knew about this person, we'll call him "John Doe" for purposes of anonymity (although, I wonder how much he really wants to keep his dirty little secret, given that his face is shown, grinning in the picture).
Flash forward to a lunch date between a mixed group of those in-the-know and those not-in-the-know. One of those apparently in the latter group is a good friend of "John." And we're doing the "who-do-you-still-see-from?" Talk gets to John, yadda, yadda, yadda. Shanna and I exchange looks and bite our lips to keep from laughing. All of a sudden, Lis rejoins the conversation. "John who?" she asks. "John Doe," the friend replies. Lis all but screams with laughter "OHHHH YEAH!!" in a voice that all but assures us she's about to spill something hilarious/embarrasing about this guy. At this point she catches herself. Pause. Pause. "He had blonde hair," she finishes, the most anticlimactic cover imaginable. Luckily, nobody but us three notice the strange exclamation.
Life skills: how to politely dance around an old friend's new porn career.
Years, hours of web-surfing, and many bottles of alcohol later, I have an answer. Not only would we watch, we'd desperately try to get an internet signal in the boonies to take a peek.
During a weekend with the girls a few months ago, we did that very thing, upon finding out that a former mutual acquaintance had posed in his birthday suit for a porn site. It was surprising, given what little I knew about this person, we'll call him "John Doe" for purposes of anonymity (although, I wonder how much he really wants to keep his dirty little secret, given that his face is shown, grinning in the picture).
Flash forward to a lunch date between a mixed group of those in-the-know and those not-in-the-know. One of those apparently in the latter group is a good friend of "John." And we're doing the "who-do-you-still-see-from?" Talk gets to John, yadda, yadda, yadda. Shanna and I exchange looks and bite our lips to keep from laughing. All of a sudden, Lis rejoins the conversation. "John who?" she asks. "John Doe," the friend replies. Lis all but screams with laughter "OHHHH YEAH!!" in a voice that all but assures us she's about to spill something hilarious/embarrasing about this guy. At this point she catches herself. Pause. Pause. "He had blonde hair," she finishes, the most anticlimactic cover imaginable. Luckily, nobody but us three notice the strange exclamation.
Life skills: how to politely dance around an old friend's new porn career.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A Series of Annoying Events
7:06 a.m. I wake up. Not because the sun is shining in through my window, not because the dog wants to go out, but because I have the most horrifying cramps I've had in ages (I strongly suspect that dropping a certain medication from my routine is to blame). I stumble to the bathroom to get my prescription painkillers and a heating pad. I set the alarm so I can call in to the office, as I'm currently unable to stand upright and have to hobble around like Quasimodo.
8:15 a.m. The alarm goes off, and, in a slight drug stupor, I call into the office and try to explain what's wrong with me. I was half asleep and drug-addled, so I'm not sure how successful I was.
1:20 p.m. The drugs wear off. I wake up, realizing I've been out-cold for almost five hours. I stumble out of bead and put the dog on her leash. I don't change out of my tank top and shorts, because who am I going to see? Answer? The only cute guy I've ever living in my apartment complex. Who is treated to a view of my dog turning and squatting.
2:00 p.m. Puppy throws up on the carpet.
2:20 I'm making lunch and cuddling with heating pad. Puppy scratches to go out on the balcony, a favorite pasttime of hers, wherein she goes outside and promptly wants back in. I'm getting up off the couch to open the door when I hear the wettest, most horrifying fart and look up to see Precious getting violent diarrhea all over my white carpet. And then on the balcony while I'm cleaning the carpet.
4:30 p.m. I'm at work and my painkillers wear off.
6:00 p.m. Puppy is violently ill on the balcony again.
7:15 p.m. Making "bland diet" food to cure puppy's intestinal troubles. She poops on the carpet again.
I have spent more time on my hands and knees in my rubber kitchen gloves than out. The boiled rice and hamburger seem to have helped. Puppy is sleeping and I am reunited with my heating pad.
8:15 a.m. The alarm goes off, and, in a slight drug stupor, I call into the office and try to explain what's wrong with me. I was half asleep and drug-addled, so I'm not sure how successful I was.
1:20 p.m. The drugs wear off. I wake up, realizing I've been out-cold for almost five hours. I stumble out of bead and put the dog on her leash. I don't change out of my tank top and shorts, because who am I going to see? Answer? The only cute guy I've ever living in my apartment complex. Who is treated to a view of my dog turning and squatting.
2:00 p.m. Puppy throws up on the carpet.
2:20 I'm making lunch and cuddling with heating pad. Puppy scratches to go out on the balcony, a favorite pasttime of hers, wherein she goes outside and promptly wants back in. I'm getting up off the couch to open the door when I hear the wettest, most horrifying fart and look up to see Precious getting violent diarrhea all over my white carpet. And then on the balcony while I'm cleaning the carpet.
4:30 p.m. I'm at work and my painkillers wear off.
6:00 p.m. Puppy is violently ill on the balcony again.
7:15 p.m. Making "bland diet" food to cure puppy's intestinal troubles. She poops on the carpet again.
I have spent more time on my hands and knees in my rubber kitchen gloves than out. The boiled rice and hamburger seem to have helped. Puppy is sleeping and I am reunited with my heating pad.
Deny, Deny, Deny
I'm starting to wonder what kind of insanity has taken hold of this place.
It seems that Butterfly Net has flown the coup. Rick, despite multiple protestations to the contrary, is the only person who's surprised by this. Every time he says how sure he is we'll never hear from her again, he's picking up the phone to call.
Flowerpower, our erstwhile former co-counsel, seems to be confused. I'm not sure what part of "your services are no longer required" is unclear. Yet, despite being told this several times, he reports alternately feeling "left out" and "heartened" regarding his future involvement. My situation being what it is, and my caffeine supply being low, I have little to no tolerance for men who have only a passing acquaintance with consistency. Flowerpower has consistently oscillated between threatening to walk out if his conditions are not met (reminiscent of the famous VanHalen "Brown M & M's" Clause) and being super-excited about some development and wanting to have special guy-bonding-time with Rick. The fact that Flowerpower's name so closely resembles Priest's real name that when I glanced at his resume on the conference table I thought Priest was applying for a job and I almost had a heart attack, doesn't endear him to me, especially given the similarities in their hot/cold behavior. He continues state his intention to file his part of the case, despite being fired by the client.
Phone Call: Friend of the Court. Wanting to confirm the half-a-bajillion settlement on Neck Crack's case. Silence and confused looks exchanged between Rick and myself. There's no settlement deal. For any amount of money. It appears that in order to avoid a show-cause hearing regarding a statutory lien, Neck Crack has informed the relevant parties that his case has settled for more than a quarter million dollars, despite the fact that there is no such offer on the table. Not. Even. Close. Apparently, he thought saying it would make it true.
Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt.
Following weeks of alternating angry, threatening, and friendly, hopeful letters, phone calls, and emails, Flowerpower is silent. Nikki asserts that he's getting a lawyer. Rick and I think he's stockpiling fertilizer to blow up the Federal Building. I work in the Federal Building.
Shit.
It seems that Butterfly Net has flown the coup. Rick, despite multiple protestations to the contrary, is the only person who's surprised by this. Every time he says how sure he is we'll never hear from her again, he's picking up the phone to call.
Flowerpower, our erstwhile former co-counsel, seems to be confused. I'm not sure what part of "your services are no longer required" is unclear. Yet, despite being told this several times, he reports alternately feeling "left out" and "heartened" regarding his future involvement. My situation being what it is, and my caffeine supply being low, I have little to no tolerance for men who have only a passing acquaintance with consistency. Flowerpower has consistently oscillated between threatening to walk out if his conditions are not met (reminiscent of the famous VanHalen "Brown M & M's" Clause) and being super-excited about some development and wanting to have special guy-bonding-time with Rick. The fact that Flowerpower's name so closely resembles Priest's real name that when I glanced at his resume on the conference table I thought Priest was applying for a job and I almost had a heart attack, doesn't endear him to me, especially given the similarities in their hot/cold behavior. He continues state his intention to file his part of the case, despite being fired by the client.
Phone Call: Friend of the Court. Wanting to confirm the half-a-bajillion settlement on Neck Crack's case. Silence and confused looks exchanged between Rick and myself. There's no settlement deal. For any amount of money. It appears that in order to avoid a show-cause hearing regarding a statutory lien, Neck Crack has informed the relevant parties that his case has settled for more than a quarter million dollars, despite the fact that there is no such offer on the table. Not. Even. Close. Apparently, he thought saying it would make it true.
Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt.
Following weeks of alternating angry, threatening, and friendly, hopeful letters, phone calls, and emails, Flowerpower is silent. Nikki asserts that he's getting a lawyer. Rick and I think he's stockpiling fertilizer to blow up the Federal Building. I work in the Federal Building.
Shit.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Bachelors
Well, call off the search kids. After a month and a half of downturn, my stock is up and Lola's got some takers. Some smart, handsome, caring investment banker/underwear model? Oh, so much better. It's less like trading Google on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange in a three-piece suit and more like trading used shivs behind a reform school in cornrows. And so, let's meet our putative suitors.
Bachelor Number 1: Tom's friend Frank, who paid John's girlfriend Bobblehead's Bulgarian Whore-friend to sleep with him. This Eastern European catch must have had some porno-tricks up her sleeve or roofies up her snatch, because he gave her a three-hundred dollar tip.
Pros: Apparently generous with money.
Cons: Slept with an amateur hooker (there's an oxymoron); twenty years my senior; emotionally and mentally stunted; stalker tendencies; dependent on others and; I won't go into particulars, but it suffices to say that I'm being kind when I say "he's no underwear model"
His approach: Flattery(?) by Third-Party/Marriage Broker. Tells John to forward to me the following message: "He's very excited that you're single. You've got good Italian genes, so you can have Italian babies. Oh, and you're in your prime child-bearing years." Thanks a bunch, all that's missing is him telling me I have "birthin' hips."
My response: That's a very sweet offer, but I'm…just not interested. Ever.
Bachelor Number 2: John's brother Austin, who greatly resembles the kid from Deliverance without the Banjo-playing prowess. This high-class-trailer-trash (John's words, not mine) is currently helping his family drive property values in my mom's neighborhood down by squeezing not only the ten members of their family but several of Austin's drop-out friends into an 1800-square foot ranch, along with multiple vehicles in various states of disrepair. Don't even get me started on his drug-addled father (apple doesn't fall far from the tree), whose vacant, meth-mouthed visage seems to work as well at repelling normal people as those fake owls seem to work on mice and chipmunks.
Pros: Geographic convenience and, apparently, optimism.
Cons: six years my junior; ambitionless; unable to hold a job longer than a few months because, despite his lack of high-school diploma, he feels that everyone wants to pay too little for his…talents?; a family that is Jerry Springer's wet dream; aforementioned resemblance to Deliverance kid; entourage of freeloading buddies; unstable brother with his own creepy-crush on me, who would undoubtedly kill us both and; utter devotion to his pot habit.
His approach: Direct, or as direct as a proposition via third-party can be. Drunken/high texts messages to D: (I cannot make up these quotes) "I want your sister's ass. I want it bad, so fucking bad. She should try me." D's response: Silence, thinking, "She wants you dead. She wants it so bad, so fucking bad."
My response: "She should try me?" Is that what he said? It's not like he's a sample spoon at Coldstone. Not like he's ginger wasabi ice cream and I can say "oh, well that wasn't so good." I guess there's no diplomatic way to say "If the world blew up and it was just the two of us left, I would join a convent." Never mind that apparently I'd be the only member of the convent. It would be preferable (and let us reflect on the repulsive quality of a man who could drive me to celibacy). This leads D (who, of course, was sworn to secrecy) and I into a discussion of things for which there is no diplomatic translation. The examples which follow are also examples of why D and I can never have live tv shows or run for office without competent publicists.
There's no diplomatic way of saying . . .
"She would build her own Great Wall of China to get rid of you."
"I would rebuild the Titanic and crash it into that ice berg to drown you in the Atlantic."
"She would build her own gas chamber to get rid of you."
"I would figure out how to split an atom and make an A-bomb to drop it on you."
"She wishes you had been killed in the Holocaust."
"I would kidnap 40,000 Egyptian slaves and have them build me a pyramid to shut you in it."
There's no diplomatic way to say that the cosmos is playing some perverse My Best Friend's Girl game with me: showing me what's out there and that what's out there, ain't good.
On a (somewhat) related note, I am being stalked by engaged women. This reminds me of the incredible Addison Montgomery-Shepard.
She never though having kids was much of a priority, and so, she doesn't have them. Then, one day she thinks she might kind of want to and discovers that she can't. And then, she wants kids. Really wants kids. Every pregnant woman she meets seems like she's rubbing it in her face. Pregnant women are stalking her! Well, she's an obstetrician.
Well, engaged women are stalking me. I'm a law student, not a wedding planner, so why are they stalking me? Two months ago, marriage was so not a priority for me. I have a year's worth of denial of the bar exam, a job to snare, and general squickiness about becoming a chattel. Now that the option's gone (at least for the foreseeable future), I feel like the world is bursting at the seems with women who got together and decided to settle into their relationships for life, en masse so that at one point, my entire news feed will consist of "X is now engaged" posts. I absolutely do not begrudge these women their chance to beat the "for better or for worse" coin toss that is getting married and staying that way. But sometimes, I wonder if it isn't God rubbing my nose in it, "say that you don't care about it and I'll give you the opportunity to prove it."
I got a message from a women I haven't spoken to since high school, presumably sent to every female facebook friend she knows, asking for advice from those married ladies among us to give her suggestions on planning her big day. I have a suggestion, Bridezilla. Check to make sure that you're sending this to your married or engaged friends and not to someone who's just gone through a heart-wrenching breakup. Or, you're likely to have people telling you that Ted Kaczynski does excellent caligraphy and you should have him send out your invitations. With all the time you're saving do research on photographers, florists, DJs, and venues, you should be able to at least filter out the people a) you don't know and b) have "single" next to their names.
More aware of it my ass.
Bachelor Number 1: Tom's friend Frank, who paid John's girlfriend Bobblehead's Bulgarian Whore-friend to sleep with him. This Eastern European catch must have had some porno-tricks up her sleeve or roofies up her snatch, because he gave her a three-hundred dollar tip.
Pros: Apparently generous with money.
Cons: Slept with an amateur hooker (there's an oxymoron); twenty years my senior; emotionally and mentally stunted; stalker tendencies; dependent on others and; I won't go into particulars, but it suffices to say that I'm being kind when I say "he's no underwear model"
His approach: Flattery(?) by Third-Party/Marriage Broker. Tells John to forward to me the following message: "He's very excited that you're single. You've got good Italian genes, so you can have Italian babies. Oh, and you're in your prime child-bearing years." Thanks a bunch, all that's missing is him telling me I have "birthin' hips."
My response: That's a very sweet offer, but I'm…just not interested. Ever.
Bachelor Number 2: John's brother Austin, who greatly resembles the kid from Deliverance without the Banjo-playing prowess. This high-class-trailer-trash (John's words, not mine) is currently helping his family drive property values in my mom's neighborhood down by squeezing not only the ten members of their family but several of Austin's drop-out friends into an 1800-square foot ranch, along with multiple vehicles in various states of disrepair. Don't even get me started on his drug-addled father (apple doesn't fall far from the tree), whose vacant, meth-mouthed visage seems to work as well at repelling normal people as those fake owls seem to work on mice and chipmunks.
Pros: Geographic convenience and, apparently, optimism.
Cons: six years my junior; ambitionless; unable to hold a job longer than a few months because, despite his lack of high-school diploma, he feels that everyone wants to pay too little for his…talents?; a family that is Jerry Springer's wet dream; aforementioned resemblance to Deliverance kid; entourage of freeloading buddies; unstable brother with his own creepy-crush on me, who would undoubtedly kill us both and; utter devotion to his pot habit.
His approach: Direct, or as direct as a proposition via third-party can be. Drunken/high texts messages to D: (I cannot make up these quotes) "I want your sister's ass. I want it bad, so fucking bad. She should try me." D's response: Silence, thinking, "She wants you dead. She wants it so bad, so fucking bad."
My response: "She should try me?" Is that what he said? It's not like he's a sample spoon at Coldstone. Not like he's ginger wasabi ice cream and I can say "oh, well that wasn't so good." I guess there's no diplomatic way to say "If the world blew up and it was just the two of us left, I would join a convent." Never mind that apparently I'd be the only member of the convent. It would be preferable (and let us reflect on the repulsive quality of a man who could drive me to celibacy). This leads D (who, of course, was sworn to secrecy) and I into a discussion of things for which there is no diplomatic translation. The examples which follow are also examples of why D and I can never have live tv shows or run for office without competent publicists.
There's no diplomatic way of saying . . .
"She would build her own Great Wall of China to get rid of you."
"I would rebuild the Titanic and crash it into that ice berg to drown you in the Atlantic."
"She would build her own gas chamber to get rid of you."
"I would figure out how to split an atom and make an A-bomb to drop it on you."
"She wishes you had been killed in the Holocaust."
"I would kidnap 40,000 Egyptian slaves and have them build me a pyramid to shut you in it."
There's no diplomatic way to say that the cosmos is playing some perverse My Best Friend's Girl game with me: showing me what's out there and that what's out there, ain't good.
On a (somewhat) related note, I am being stalked by engaged women. This reminds me of the incredible Addison Montgomery-Shepard.
She never though having kids was much of a priority, and so, she doesn't have them. Then, one day she thinks she might kind of want to and discovers that she can't. And then, she wants kids. Really wants kids. Every pregnant woman she meets seems like she's rubbing it in her face. Pregnant women are stalking her! Well, she's an obstetrician.
Well, engaged women are stalking me. I'm a law student, not a wedding planner, so why are they stalking me? Two months ago, marriage was so not a priority for me. I have a year's worth of denial of the bar exam, a job to snare, and general squickiness about becoming a chattel. Now that the option's gone (at least for the foreseeable future), I feel like the world is bursting at the seems with women who got together and decided to settle into their relationships for life, en masse so that at one point, my entire news feed will consist of "X is now engaged" posts. I absolutely do not begrudge these women their chance to beat the "for better or for worse" coin toss that is getting married and staying that way. But sometimes, I wonder if it isn't God rubbing my nose in it, "say that you don't care about it and I'll give you the opportunity to prove it."
I got a message from a women I haven't spoken to since high school, presumably sent to every female facebook friend she knows, asking for advice from those married ladies among us to give her suggestions on planning her big day. I have a suggestion, Bridezilla. Check to make sure that you're sending this to your married or engaged friends and not to someone who's just gone through a heart-wrenching breakup. Or, you're likely to have people telling you that Ted Kaczynski does excellent caligraphy and you should have him send out your invitations. With all the time you're saving do research on photographers, florists, DJs, and venues, you should be able to at least filter out the people a) you don't know and b) have "single" next to their names.
More aware of it my ass.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Knee Deep in Shit
Nikki always says I should have a reality show. She says it's because I'm funny and have an interesting life. I say it's because bad luck follows me around, usually with hilarious results (well, if you're watching from the outside). I imagine it like the little black rain cloud that follows Winnie the Pooh.
But this latest installment in real-life slapstick is just too funny for me to keep to myself in some attempt to maintain any semblance of dignity.
I was driving to Mama Lo's house on Saturday and for various reasons I haven't felt quite well lately. I'm assuming that the mini-keg of beer and the pack of cigarettes didn't do me any favors, but it was a holiday weekend. At any rate, roughly 15-20 minutes from my mom's house I get a bad case of the tummy gurgles. For reference, I despise public restrooms and would frankly rather go in the woods, so I decide that I'm a grown-up type person and can hold it while I drive like hell.
By the time I got to Mama Lo's I was confident in my ability to open the door to the house I lived in from the time I was 3 until I went away to college. Yeah, well, pride goes before the fall. Apparently, my mom had her locks changed since I last got a set of keys. The rumbling being more persistent now I dash to the back door to see if the patio door is open. Unfortunately, my somewhat paranoid and overzealous uncle now lives with my mom and insists on putting the whole house on lockdown. In a vain attempt to not shit my pants, I scamper to the front door, calling my mom to see what the code to the lock box is. It's at this point that I realize that my situation is dire. Fully aware that my neighbors are having a barbeque behind the hedges, I drop my keys and run behind the garage where I drop my pants and pray that none of the neighbor's kids decide to play in the hedges where they would be treated to a view of my naked ass and the aftermath of constant stress and too much to drink.
I'm so grossed out at this point I didn't think it could get worse. But, of course, one of the reason no one poops in the wild is because there's nothing to wipe with and I wasn't willing to risk the chance that the innocent looking weeds behind the garage were poison ivy. Because that's the last thing I need this month, poison ivy all over my naughty bits. Admitting defeat, I pull up my pants and start to search for a way to get into the damn house before Holly arrives, wanting to go to the barbeque. Finally, I get a stroke of luck. Mama Lo has stacked lawn chairs under a bathroom window. I Spidey my way up onto the window ledge and squeeze my way through the half-window and manage to climb down without breaking anything. The dog comes prancing in, despite my pleas to leave me alone in my shame.
Finally, I get myself cleaned up, get a pair of pajama pants and get my pants Spray'n'washed and in the washer. And I can return to normal life. So, I let the dog out and she does her little business so I start to walk inside so I can get her a treat. That's when she gets a funny look and makes a beeline for the back of the garage. That's right. I scream "NO!" (DO NOT WANT!), but by the time I got back there, she's rolling in it. She stands up and is just covered. I slam the doorwall shut to ensure that it doesn't get worse and grab the hose. I'm sure I sounded absolutely insane to the neighbors as I hosed off Satan disguised as a 35-pound cocker spaniel while screaming, "If you're grown enough to roll in shit, you're grown enough to get the hose."
Jennie asks me why all the interesting stuff happens at my house. Yeah, crapping in your backyard and having the dog roll in it is "interesting."
The final indignity, once my mother has stopped laughing her ass off at me she says, "for future reference, there's a spare key under the 'Welcome' mat."
I think it can be summed up: Fuck. My. Life.
But this latest installment in real-life slapstick is just too funny for me to keep to myself in some attempt to maintain any semblance of dignity.
I was driving to Mama Lo's house on Saturday and for various reasons I haven't felt quite well lately. I'm assuming that the mini-keg of beer and the pack of cigarettes didn't do me any favors, but it was a holiday weekend. At any rate, roughly 15-20 minutes from my mom's house I get a bad case of the tummy gurgles. For reference, I despise public restrooms and would frankly rather go in the woods, so I decide that I'm a grown-up type person and can hold it while I drive like hell.
By the time I got to Mama Lo's I was confident in my ability to open the door to the house I lived in from the time I was 3 until I went away to college. Yeah, well, pride goes before the fall. Apparently, my mom had her locks changed since I last got a set of keys. The rumbling being more persistent now I dash to the back door to see if the patio door is open. Unfortunately, my somewhat paranoid and overzealous uncle now lives with my mom and insists on putting the whole house on lockdown. In a vain attempt to not shit my pants, I scamper to the front door, calling my mom to see what the code to the lock box is. It's at this point that I realize that my situation is dire. Fully aware that my neighbors are having a barbeque behind the hedges, I drop my keys and run behind the garage where I drop my pants and pray that none of the neighbor's kids decide to play in the hedges where they would be treated to a view of my naked ass and the aftermath of constant stress and too much to drink.
I'm so grossed out at this point I didn't think it could get worse. But, of course, one of the reason no one poops in the wild is because there's nothing to wipe with and I wasn't willing to risk the chance that the innocent looking weeds behind the garage were poison ivy. Because that's the last thing I need this month, poison ivy all over my naughty bits. Admitting defeat, I pull up my pants and start to search for a way to get into the damn house before Holly arrives, wanting to go to the barbeque. Finally, I get a stroke of luck. Mama Lo has stacked lawn chairs under a bathroom window. I Spidey my way up onto the window ledge and squeeze my way through the half-window and manage to climb down without breaking anything. The dog comes prancing in, despite my pleas to leave me alone in my shame.
Finally, I get myself cleaned up, get a pair of pajama pants and get my pants Spray'n'washed and in the washer. And I can return to normal life. So, I let the dog out and she does her little business so I start to walk inside so I can get her a treat. That's when she gets a funny look and makes a beeline for the back of the garage. That's right. I scream "NO!" (DO NOT WANT!), but by the time I got back there, she's rolling in it. She stands up and is just covered. I slam the doorwall shut to ensure that it doesn't get worse and grab the hose. I'm sure I sounded absolutely insane to the neighbors as I hosed off Satan disguised as a 35-pound cocker spaniel while screaming, "If you're grown enough to roll in shit, you're grown enough to get the hose."
Jennie asks me why all the interesting stuff happens at my house. Yeah, crapping in your backyard and having the dog roll in it is "interesting."
The final indignity, once my mother has stopped laughing her ass off at me she says, "for future reference, there's a spare key under the 'Welcome' mat."
I think it can be summed up: Fuck. My. Life.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Home is where your hair dryer is
Rick is annoyed. More randomness and stupidness has come into the office via a letterhead envelope.
"Why is he doing this? To harass her?"
I almost cannot believe my ears.
"If I could answer a question like 'why is this man acting the way he is?' do you honestly think I'd be standing here having this conversation? I'd be on my yacht in the French Riviera."
Rick is annoyed. I am sarcastic.
When I am King, I am going to require everyone submit written explanations for their behavior so when questions like this arise, I can pull the explanation out of its little file folder and say "Well, he's doing this because he's had a bad week at work and fucking with you is the only way to make him feel like a big man in control of his life." Thanks for calling.
It will also be helpful when people claim they are not doing something stupid, or when they are annoyed at your reaction to said behavior. And there will be ice cream and martinis. Life will be good when I am King. Less bullshit, more vodka.
Currently, the only domain I am master of is my apartment. And that dominance is tenuous. My main smoke detector is on my coffee table. I had Priest take it down when I was making dinner for Valentine's Day because I forgot to turn on the vent and the steam from the steaks I was searing was making the damn thing go nuts. Well, it never got put back up. Also, I have a pile of half-folded laundry and a bathroom that needs cleaning before Fitz gets here tonight. This is not what I planned when I got sprung from work early. It's also hotter than hell in here. The big box fan wasn't cutting it, so, I had to turn on the A/C. This is where things get a little tricky.
I can't reach the A/C. I just stand there, on tip-toe reaching out and falling over and wimpering because I can't reach. I had to pull a chair over and stand on it to reach.
This is the modern empowered woman. Climbing on furniture like a five year old because I'm too weensy to reach my own appliances (parenthetically, that's why I haven't put the smoke detector back). The sad truth is, Priest's predecessor, Mute Button always turned it on for me when we started living here two years ago and he and I broke up that December. Well, I started dating Priest shortly thereafter, and by the time summer rolled around, he got to assume air conditioning duties. I don't know that I've ever turned the damn thing on. Until today, when I stood on my little suede covered dining room chair and tried not to fall onto my t.v. as I turned the little knob. How inconvenient. I mean, really, Priest picked a very inconsiderate time to abandon ship. In the future, I will require cold-weather break-ups so I can break in successors in time for summer. Another thing on the list for when I'm King. A tall male slave will be required to turn on the A/C.
It's good to be King.
"Why is he doing this? To harass her?"
I almost cannot believe my ears.
"If I could answer a question like 'why is this man acting the way he is?' do you honestly think I'd be standing here having this conversation? I'd be on my yacht in the French Riviera."
Rick is annoyed. I am sarcastic.
When I am King, I am going to require everyone submit written explanations for their behavior so when questions like this arise, I can pull the explanation out of its little file folder and say "Well, he's doing this because he's had a bad week at work and fucking with you is the only way to make him feel like a big man in control of his life." Thanks for calling.
It will also be helpful when people claim they are not doing something stupid, or when they are annoyed at your reaction to said behavior. And there will be ice cream and martinis. Life will be good when I am King. Less bullshit, more vodka.
Currently, the only domain I am master of is my apartment. And that dominance is tenuous. My main smoke detector is on my coffee table. I had Priest take it down when I was making dinner for Valentine's Day because I forgot to turn on the vent and the steam from the steaks I was searing was making the damn thing go nuts. Well, it never got put back up. Also, I have a pile of half-folded laundry and a bathroom that needs cleaning before Fitz gets here tonight. This is not what I planned when I got sprung from work early. It's also hotter than hell in here. The big box fan wasn't cutting it, so, I had to turn on the A/C. This is where things get a little tricky.
I can't reach the A/C. I just stand there, on tip-toe reaching out and falling over and wimpering because I can't reach. I had to pull a chair over and stand on it to reach.
This is the modern empowered woman. Climbing on furniture like a five year old because I'm too weensy to reach my own appliances (parenthetically, that's why I haven't put the smoke detector back). The sad truth is, Priest's predecessor, Mute Button always turned it on for me when we started living here two years ago and he and I broke up that December. Well, I started dating Priest shortly thereafter, and by the time summer rolled around, he got to assume air conditioning duties. I don't know that I've ever turned the damn thing on. Until today, when I stood on my little suede covered dining room chair and tried not to fall onto my t.v. as I turned the little knob. How inconvenient. I mean, really, Priest picked a very inconsiderate time to abandon ship. In the future, I will require cold-weather break-ups so I can break in successors in time for summer. Another thing on the list for when I'm King. A tall male slave will be required to turn on the A/C.
It's good to be King.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Hop, Skip, and a Week
A week break is so not long enough.
The escaped-Nazi war criminals who plan our academic calendar, in their infinite wisdom, give us just a little under a week from which to recover from the probably-Geneva-Convention-violating experience that is finals before the summer session kicks off.
This is PLENTY of time when applied to us, but such a short period of time when applied to activities such as processing financial aid and, God forbid, posting grades that were submitted to the Registrar's office well over two weeks ago.
"They can't post grades until after finals are over."
Mama Lo doesn't understand this. "Why can't they?" She asks, sounding alarmed, like maybe she's expecting an explanation like, the building will turn into a puppy-seeking missile if they try to imput grades a day too early.
I try to explain to her that it's not that they can't, I just strongly suspect they don't want to, so, they turn to that slackasses best friend: they make a policy.
Sorry, we can't post until after finals. And the day after finals, we have to have a cool-down period. And since the system updates in the middle of the night, like a refugee fleeing the homeland, nothing will actually post until about the following Monday. It's policy, dontchaknow.
The sick thing about finals is that you have a few, blessed hours in which you care nothing about school and want to be free of anything that reminds you in any way of law school and then the panic starts to set in. You know that grades will not be posted for weeks, you know that even if some miraculous professor actually turns in grades, you've got days before it shows up, you know that even when something does post, it only updates once a day, you still feel compelled to obsessively check the page once every half an hour, like maybe something will slip through the cracks.
I think it goes without saying that I was not ready to do 60 pages of reading and then sit in class for three and a half hours.
Up next, a fun-filled week of cleaning my house (eek!) to get ready for a parade of visitors including Fitz, Scott, and Lisa (YAY! VISITORS!)
Also, WHY in commercials are two people talking about a product, say, facewash, lipstick, vagisil and the person giving the "pitch" just happens to pull it out of their purse? I mean, I guess I can understand the lipstick, or pain pills. Something you might actually have in your possession, but Clearasil? Seriously?
Is it really necessary? And why do I care?
The escaped-Nazi war criminals who plan our academic calendar, in their infinite wisdom, give us just a little under a week from which to recover from the probably-Geneva-Convention-violating experience that is finals before the summer session kicks off.
This is PLENTY of time when applied to us, but such a short period of time when applied to activities such as processing financial aid and, God forbid, posting grades that were submitted to the Registrar's office well over two weeks ago.
"They can't post grades until after finals are over."
Mama Lo doesn't understand this. "Why can't they?" She asks, sounding alarmed, like maybe she's expecting an explanation like, the building will turn into a puppy-seeking missile if they try to imput grades a day too early.
I try to explain to her that it's not that they can't, I just strongly suspect they don't want to, so, they turn to that slackasses best friend: they make a policy.
Sorry, we can't post until after finals. And the day after finals, we have to have a cool-down period. And since the system updates in the middle of the night, like a refugee fleeing the homeland, nothing will actually post until about the following Monday. It's policy, dontchaknow.
The sick thing about finals is that you have a few, blessed hours in which you care nothing about school and want to be free of anything that reminds you in any way of law school and then the panic starts to set in. You know that grades will not be posted for weeks, you know that even if some miraculous professor actually turns in grades, you've got days before it shows up, you know that even when something does post, it only updates once a day, you still feel compelled to obsessively check the page once every half an hour, like maybe something will slip through the cracks.
I think it goes without saying that I was not ready to do 60 pages of reading and then sit in class for three and a half hours.
Up next, a fun-filled week of cleaning my house (eek!) to get ready for a parade of visitors including Fitz, Scott, and Lisa (YAY! VISITORS!)
Also, WHY in commercials are two people talking about a product, say, facewash, lipstick, vagisil and the person giving the "pitch" just happens to pull it out of their purse? I mean, I guess I can understand the lipstick, or pain pills. Something you might actually have in your possession, but Clearasil? Seriously?
Is it really necessary? And why do I care?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Bitch is Back
Breakfast with Stephy. Topic: His resemblance to Steve Carrell is more pronounced than ever. I cannot make this up, you'd really have to see a picture. But, in the interests of privacy, I will not post one. Trust me on this one.
Today, we introduced the dance party into the law review office. Chief, while approving the idea of the dance party, will not participate. Lame. It's pissing rain and no one wants to study for the heart-attack inducement that is finals, so instead, we spin around in our office chairs to "Come on Eileen."
Productivity. We haz it.
We haz also disspelled the rumor that Law Review is a productive, studious sort of organization. Between the chair-spinning dance party, people randomly breaking into Do Re Mi in a train station, Mice mauling nursing home residents, Claire's ultimate playlist, Showtunes, and the extensive discussion of the merits of Newsies, I think we've frightened the prospective students. Also, WHY bring prospective students here now? I think the sight of me alone should scare them off. Add in my impression of Claire getting hot in her graduation gown while listening to "Buttons" and I think it's a lock.
On the subject of Newsies, Christian Bale, WHY do you break my heart by saying "Time has healed" the Newsies "wound?" Now I'M wounded. C'mon now, embrace Newsies, SEIZE THE DAY!
I have picked my Westlaw prize. It means I have to get like, a thousand points a month until graduation, but dammit, I want the Calphalon pots! And, as Kati points out, it's not like I'll have a wedding registry anytime in the next few years. I wonder, where's my shower for surviving 10 years of heartbreak and jackasses (and sometimes jackasses that break your heart)? Don't I deserve an ice bucket? Don't I deserve matching dishes? Or a set of really good knives? I need a set of really good knives!
Kati will not let me have knives right now.
On another note, Kati, my avenging angel, has taken justice into her own hands with a well-timed Twix theft. There is a land called Passive Agressiva and Kati is their Queen. Moral of the story: Justice is swift and it steals your candy.
Unfortunately, none of this is conducive to studying. I should be more concerned about the exam I have tomorrow. But I do have a kick-ass outline.
The undergrads continue to wait in droves for study passes. It's all I can do not to scream "RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" Another day, when I have not already used up my disruption quota for the day.
Discoveries via Facebook: I took the "Which Musical Theatre Leading Lady Are You?" quiz and I'm Elphaba. "Oh, you're a witch and you fly, big surprise!" Kati embraces my witchness more than the average bear.
Tomorrow, I learn how professionally responsible I am. After that, I rediscover how irresponsible I know myself to be. Bachelorette weeekend with my roomies from college. I'm super excited because we havent all been together since we graduated.
See? I'm not totally dead inside.
Today, we introduced the dance party into the law review office. Chief, while approving the idea of the dance party, will not participate. Lame. It's pissing rain and no one wants to study for the heart-attack inducement that is finals, so instead, we spin around in our office chairs to "Come on Eileen."
Productivity. We haz it.
We haz also disspelled the rumor that Law Review is a productive, studious sort of organization. Between the chair-spinning dance party, people randomly breaking into Do Re Mi in a train station, Mice mauling nursing home residents, Claire's ultimate playlist, Showtunes, and the extensive discussion of the merits of Newsies, I think we've frightened the prospective students. Also, WHY bring prospective students here now? I think the sight of me alone should scare them off. Add in my impression of Claire getting hot in her graduation gown while listening to "Buttons" and I think it's a lock.
On the subject of Newsies, Christian Bale, WHY do you break my heart by saying "Time has healed" the Newsies "wound?" Now I'M wounded. C'mon now, embrace Newsies, SEIZE THE DAY!
I have picked my Westlaw prize. It means I have to get like, a thousand points a month until graduation, but dammit, I want the Calphalon pots! And, as Kati points out, it's not like I'll have a wedding registry anytime in the next few years. I wonder, where's my shower for surviving 10 years of heartbreak and jackasses (and sometimes jackasses that break your heart)? Don't I deserve an ice bucket? Don't I deserve matching dishes? Or a set of really good knives? I need a set of really good knives!
Kati will not let me have knives right now.
On another note, Kati, my avenging angel, has taken justice into her own hands with a well-timed Twix theft. There is a land called Passive Agressiva and Kati is their Queen. Moral of the story: Justice is swift and it steals your candy.
Unfortunately, none of this is conducive to studying. I should be more concerned about the exam I have tomorrow. But I do have a kick-ass outline.
The undergrads continue to wait in droves for study passes. It's all I can do not to scream "RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" Another day, when I have not already used up my disruption quota for the day.
Discoveries via Facebook: I took the "Which Musical Theatre Leading Lady Are You?" quiz and I'm Elphaba. "Oh, you're a witch and you fly, big surprise!" Kati embraces my witchness more than the average bear.
Tomorrow, I learn how professionally responsible I am. After that, I rediscover how irresponsible I know myself to be. Bachelorette weeekend with my roomies from college. I'm super excited because we havent all been together since we graduated.
See? I'm not totally dead inside.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The ashes will scatter
I had a really funny post planned for today. Full of the goods on drunken kickball, Tiny the Dinosaur, and how people in Michigan have never seen rain before.
But I can't do it. I just can't. I'm too empty tonight. Last night, I made an ass of myself and it cost me someone I love. Priest left me this afternoon and I just don't have it in me.
The humiliation isn't my problem. Plenty of people think I'm batshit crazy and it doesn't bug me. I'm lost and no amount of ranting will help me this time. So, I apologize for the tone. But if you can't love me at my worst, well, then I guess you don't deserve me at my best.
It was stupid and I don't remember most of it. I didn't think things would end this way. 24 hours ago I was happy, excited for spring, had a boyfriend who loved me, the prospect of the future, and the end of the year in my sights. And, in the blink of an eye, it's ashes. I have a heart--cold, hard, maybe--and now it's broken. People all over are probably collecting on or paying out on bets.
I'm lucky. I have amazing friends and family, who were there to catch me when I fell. Nikki, who picked me up (literally) and held me when I cried; D, who made sure she could see me and let me cry all over her 80s shirt and AJ who hung out with me on the couch and listened to me forever; Sara, who shows almost superhuman strength and listened and consoled me when my stupid problems aren't even in the same universe as what she's gone through; Natalie and Phillip who have amazing compassion for their gave up a fun Saturday night with teenage friends so the four of us could be together; Meghan, who called expecting gossip and got tears; Mama Roo, who talked to me until I felt sane again; Jennie for her unconditional loyalty; Vince who bought me donuts; Megan for her calm, collected outlook on life; Naomi for giving me a "mom" hug, even though she's only known me for three months; Emmy, who made me laugh; Elisa who found time before going out with her hubby to listen to me talk; Lisa for being there even though she's in Arizona; Al and June for the three-way parent hug and words of wisdom; Daddy Warbucks for the moral support; Aunt Debi for reassuring me that all is not lost; Aunt Betty for pure sympathy; Emma who's in Boston, but is here for me always; and Rusty, who's been here through it all. They've all told me, in their own ways, "you are not alone."
So, I end, surprisingly out of character, with a Bible verse I love and, not out of character, Siddalee Walker's take on it:
"Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh."
~Luke, or whoever really wrote it, didn't promise you'd prosper or be saved; he only promised that if you wept, then sooner or later you'd laugh.
But I can't do it. I just can't. I'm too empty tonight. Last night, I made an ass of myself and it cost me someone I love. Priest left me this afternoon and I just don't have it in me.
The humiliation isn't my problem. Plenty of people think I'm batshit crazy and it doesn't bug me. I'm lost and no amount of ranting will help me this time. So, I apologize for the tone. But if you can't love me at my worst, well, then I guess you don't deserve me at my best.
It was stupid and I don't remember most of it. I didn't think things would end this way. 24 hours ago I was happy, excited for spring, had a boyfriend who loved me, the prospect of the future, and the end of the year in my sights. And, in the blink of an eye, it's ashes. I have a heart--cold, hard, maybe--and now it's broken. People all over are probably collecting on or paying out on bets.
I'm lucky. I have amazing friends and family, who were there to catch me when I fell. Nikki, who picked me up (literally) and held me when I cried; D, who made sure she could see me and let me cry all over her 80s shirt and AJ who hung out with me on the couch and listened to me forever; Sara, who shows almost superhuman strength and listened and consoled me when my stupid problems aren't even in the same universe as what she's gone through; Natalie and Phillip who have amazing compassion for their gave up a fun Saturday night with teenage friends so the four of us could be together; Meghan, who called expecting gossip and got tears; Mama Roo, who talked to me until I felt sane again; Jennie for her unconditional loyalty; Vince who bought me donuts; Megan for her calm, collected outlook on life; Naomi for giving me a "mom" hug, even though she's only known me for three months; Emmy, who made me laugh; Elisa who found time before going out with her hubby to listen to me talk; Lisa for being there even though she's in Arizona; Al and June for the three-way parent hug and words of wisdom; Daddy Warbucks for the moral support; Aunt Debi for reassuring me that all is not lost; Aunt Betty for pure sympathy; Emma who's in Boston, but is here for me always; and Rusty, who's been here through it all. They've all told me, in their own ways, "you are not alone."
So, I end, surprisingly out of character, with a Bible verse I love and, not out of character, Siddalee Walker's take on it:
"Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh."
~Luke, or whoever really wrote it, didn't promise you'd prosper or be saved; he only promised that if you wept, then sooner or later you'd laugh.
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