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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
