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.

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 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.

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.

Stockholm Syndrome

Sucking down Spring-themed cocktails on Friday night: Thanks to Kati, purveyor of all the best gossip, discussion turns to Professor Goodtime, who apparently had a fondness for students who were up for extra credit. Also for leaves of absence when Professor Spouse Goodtime found out. This leads to the inevitable round of "Would you Rather?: Sex with a Professor Edition." Much as I can see Goodtime getting le freak on and pickin' up a few tips on a Freedom Ride, I just don't understand how more than one student ended up on that particular Freedom Ride. (In my mind, Goodtime was of the activist/hippie/radical sort; plus, I liked playing with "Freedom Ride")

Overheard in the law review office:

"Spem, within 4 words of donor. Let's just try donor."

Also, LiLo allegedly scaled a wall to get into a party for a JCPenney clothing line launch. My, my, how are the mighty fallen.

Today, I thought Rick was going to choke a bitch. Neck Crack, while trying to figure out how to get out of child support so he can get monies for himself, informs Rick that he's been talking to another lawyer and his case is worth a half a bajillion dollars. I hunker down over my notepad and gleefully await the 'splosion that will surely take place.

And I wait.

Nothing. Dead Calm. WTF?

"I don't find fault with you, Neck Crack" he says.

Well, I do.

Time for school! Grateful for the excuse, I slip out the door and try to eat something before my meeting.

Today's meeting is fully of animations. I like it, it's like cartoons. Also, I have a bagel. Talk turns to a person new members can turn to if they don't want to ask their scary M.E questions. Charlie leans forward and stares at me. I smile and shrug. So, I'm a scary M.E., like anyone would have questioned that.

Today we continue our discussion of hate speech. Now, given that I frequently voice my desire to eviscerate some people, it may surprise you to find that I actually don't like hate speech. I personally think that people should find better things to do with their time than find ways to hate people in a large group, when there are perfectly legitimate reasons to hate individuals on their own merits. But, in any case, you should avoid showing this hatred by sneaking into someone's yard and lighting shit on fire. Presumably, not even the ACLU would back you on that.

(Sidenote: Bundle of contradictions that I am, though, I feel that if the KKK wants to put on their bedsheets, crack open some PBR, go out to a field and light a cross on fire, they're well within their rights to do so. Besides, there's always the chance the sheets might catch fire.) Let's face it, bigots who set their costumes afire=funny!


The hate speech discussion is actually drawing my interest more than usual, so I spend less than my alotted time on the facebook. But if Tender Tweeze and her alleged fiance, Stockholm, post any more pictures of them half-naked or making "sexy" faces (mostly, they just look constipated) or trying to touch their tongues together; I will personally nail them together and set them afire in a field. Also, the new Facebook format makes these pictures almost impossible to avoid. For some reason, they always crop up (SURPRISE!) in the ironically named "Highlights" column. And dammned if the most offensive pictures aren't the album cover. They are either trying to convince everyone that they really mean it, or they enjoy knowing that everyone screams "AH! DO NOT WANT!!!" when signing into facebook.


Karen somehow confuses Stockholm for Priest and wonders how I can be so calm about Tender Tweeze posting tongue touching pictures. We're off on a tangent now, so I go for it and try to see if I can make her yelp during class.
Message: To: Karen, From: Lola: is how Goodtime got students into bed.

Mission Accomplished.

With a Decent Tailwind, I Can Get Across Town in 3 Minutes

So, it's true that there is a Facebook Group dedicated to the idea that I ride a broomstick to work.

I can't really dispute this in light of the amount of ranting that has gone on in the past two days despite the fact that my glands are so swollen I resemble a bullfrog during mating season.

Some people take this a little too seriously. I am waiting for Priest to get out of his late meeting last night. At midnight, I decide to text and see what the hold up is. Aaaaaaaand, I have text messages. He is at my apartment, wondering where I am. Um, at the same table I was at 3 hours ago when you saw me last? He thought I was at home. He drove me to school this morning.

I can't help myself. I yell, in the lobby, "How did you think got home? Didya think I jumped on my broomstick and flew?" A woman across the lobby dissolves into the giggles. Apparently, some people believe the myth.

Megan wants us to work on communication with new members in order to dispell the rumor that we are scary and unfriendly. I laugh, but refrain from stating the obvious: I am scary and unfriendly.

You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

Today might really be the day I blow that vein in my forehead.

Law school is one of those places in which every day has the potential to be a minefield of people you hate and the experiences that make you hate them. And. You. Can't. Escape.

The "sinusitis" will not be allowed to be called "sinus infection" for another six days, at which point I will be written a prescription for antibiotics that will wipe out the misery I've felt for four days in a little under 16 minutes, after, of course, I've infected everyone I know. Thanks, HealthCenter! Meanwhile, I sound like a foghorn every time I blow my nose. Seriously, my friend Emily laughs every time I blow my nose because she says it sounds like a cartoon.

Boyfriend-the-priest-to-be (hereinafter Priest) pities me in my weakened condition. He shows this concern by allowing me to carry two bags of garbage to his dumpster in exchange for my ride to school. I am convinced that I smell like garbage, but cannot smell it. I try to surreptitiously smell myself, remembering that I can't inhale sneakily only when I make a snarf noise that startles even me.

Gnome Hooker is lurking in the hall on my way to my first class. I am horrified to see that despite the fact that her face looks like one of the clocks in that Dali painting, she has on makeup and clothes that match and might look better than me. I am relieved to find that she has not highlighted her hair to match mine as Nikki and I previously suspected. Or, she dyed it back over break. Whatever, she's stopped wearing the glasses that mysteriously match mine.

I stir my Emergen-C into a cup of what is allegedly drinking water from downstairs wonder how something that fizzes like toxic goo is supposed to make me feel better.

A couple of minutes later, I'm back in the hall, maybe I'm making an appointment, maybe I'm seeking Kleenex and come face to face with Professor Badonkadonk, who ignored emails I sent for two months before asking me why I took so long to ask her for an appointment. I go into Career Services to see what kind of neat toner cartridges they have for me to drink.

And on the way back, that's right, Gnome Hooker. I yawn, looking something the Kraken before it eats Johnny Depp. This day just keeps getting better and better.


Email message: From: Princess Guard Dog: Can you do all this work and get all this stuff set up for the event I'm planning with no input from anyone? I know that I don't work, or have school, but I really have my hands full with making the poster!

Lecture Transcript: Clearly the business students who smoke outside our door don't understand English, or they would read the sign and smoke on the steps, 25 feet away from the building. You know who I'm talking about. Dude, did Professor Kapes just bash the Asian Smoker Mafia? Rock on, Kapes!

Ok, that part kind of rocked.

Voicemail: Princess Guard Dog: Um, did you get that stuff done yet? I said by the end of the week, but what I meant was, today. Well, right now. Thanks!

Email: Miraculously, after an email intervention from a higher power, Badonkadonk has time to see me. But she's out of the country until two weeks from today. Um, then who the fuck did I just see in the hallway?

Text Message: Haven't you done that stuff yet? Didn't you get the email and the voicemail?

I start my list of tasks, trying to be helpful at least, I've juuuust started dialing when:

Text Message: What about now?

I grab the heavy duty stapler, wondering if I could puncture my skull with it.

I call a friend, who is also planning this event. I am about to explain my frustration, which is not with her, when someone else chimes in. Ah, we have a conference call! SUPRISE! Fuck My Life.

In an uncharacteristic display of kindness, I buy cups of tea for myself and Priest, who also has a case of the sniffles. My lid is not securely fastened. Hot tea scalds my hand and the 1L next to me starts snickering. I turn to him and say "Yeah, yuk it up, Chuckles."

And he does.