The Name Game

When D was a little girl, she decided she was no longer into her given name. Well, actually, she had it in her head that if she changed her name, she could change her family. So, at the tender age of four, she demanded that she be known as "Vanessa" and adopted my uncle's last name. Apparently, she was not satisfied with me as an older sister and wanted a baby sister: my uncle's newborn daughter to be exact. For months, if you called her by name, she wouldn't answer. This caused no small amount of consternation to dance teachers, teachers, parents of friends, and especially my father. "What's wrong with that kid?" He would ask (oh-so-subtley in front of "that kid"). But not to Mama Lo, who found the entire situation hilarious. "Kid says her name's Vanessa," she would say, "call her Vanessa. She'll get over it."

As usual, my mother was right, and "Vanessa" learned that you can't change your identity by insisting that everyone called you by a different name. And she embraced her original life, and learned to play the hand she was dealt. She came to grips with having an older sister and a baby cousin, though I maintain that her discovery of what happens in those diapers is mostly to thank. I guess having a sister who was potty-trained and didn't drool all over her toys had its charms, even to a toddler. But the point is that she was a small child when she had this odd little identity crisis. And by the time she was an adult, she'd grown out of such insanity (and into all new types of crazy).

We should all be so lucky.

As people who know me in real-life already know, and the rest of you are about to find out, I have a crazy cousin (well, I have several, big family and all that, but this one is the definitive nut job). The stories are legend: ultimatums, temper tantrums and grand delusions. This is a woman who gave her boyfriend a proposal ultimatum. And when the deadline passed, she went out, took a loan, bought herself a ring, brought it home, and told him to give it to her when he felt like it. And then called everyone to tell them she was engaged. And then called us all months later to tell us when she was "officially engaged." Unfortunately, she called me during finals, with the mistaken belief that I gave a shit (I don't). I didn't recognize the number, or I wouldn't have answered, and my response was "Uh, didn't you get engaged months ago? Well, enjoy . I gotta go. I have a test to study for. " Somehow, over the past 26 years or so, she has somehow missed the fact that we're not close. Never have been. The older we get, the more I realize I just don't like the vapid, manipulative, shallow, lazy bitch. The delusional harpy thinks we're friends. Honestly, I don't know how ANYONE could fail to realize I don't like them.

That dear readers, was about three years ago. No movement on the wedding front. Until D got engaged. CrazyCousin tried to pull off a shotgun wedding. FatherTime, her ancient fiance, would have none of it. Then, CrazyC's little sister got engaged. All. Hell. Broke. Loose. We were treated to a rant about how everyone is "conspiring" against her and trying to "steal her thunder." "Next thing you know, it'll be Lola!" First off, bitch, let's not act like that's one of the horsemen of the apocalypse. Second of all, what thunder?

Then, there was her Christmas card. Aside from the Derek Zoolander-esque photo she selected, there was the fact that she signed her fiance's last name, despite the fact that everyone receiving a card knows that she is not, in fact, married.

Which brings me back to my original point. I thought it odd that she thinks that just by signing a different last name, her life would magically change and she'd have what she wants. Nevermind that anyone could go to shutterfly, pick a picture of themselves with a current or ex-boyfriend and sign his last name and accomplish precisely what she did: look completely unbalanced.

But I totally underestimated the absolute level of crazy this woman has achieved. She sent D a card signed, not, her legal name, Crazy Rose Lawless, but her "new name:" Zarea Marie K******. Apparently, she now insists that we call her by this ridiculous new name, much as my sister did at the tender age of 4. Whatever. At 4 it was kinda cute. Once you're over 25, not so much. I refuse to indulge in this absurdity. I will refer to her as Crazy until we die. And when she calls me on it, I'll just say "I'm sorry. I forgot. It's just such a stupid name."
Telling Jay this, he replies, "Maybe she has mental stability issues."
"Oh, I think it's pretty clear that she has mental stability issues."

Stash Our Trash

There's a running joke at the office. Actually, there are several running jokes around the office, most notably about the employee named "Not Me." "Not me" is an insanely busy employee, which is why he/she can never be found. But, he/she is always up to something, por ejemplo:



Q: Who's supposed to run this report?

A: Not Me.



Q: Who do I talk to about getting this information?

A: Not me.



Q: Who's in charge of this?

A: Not me.



It goes on. My irritation level varies with how badly I need the information or need something done. But that is not the point of this (very belated) post.



I was sitting in my office in a Santa hat (yes, a Santa hat. We all had to work a shift at the open house because our office hosts it. I was told to wear something "festive" to serve hor d'ourves. I ended up with terrible hat hair, so I left the hat on. I thought maybe it made me look festive. Probably I just looked derranged. My office is ridiculously hot and humid and so my hair, like the Grinch's heart, grew three sizes that day) when housekeeping waltzed in, absurdly, yet not entirely surprisingly, wearing reindeer antlers. Now, my branch fails at many things; just ask the national office, but what cannot be denied is that our garbage cans are always impeccably maintained. Why? We wonder (frequently aloud) is it that we're so good at this? Why are so many things so difficult for us to achieve, yet I can't even leave a used post-it in my garbage without it being speedily whisked away by the house keeping staff. In fact, for a while when I first started, two of the housekeepers used to come around one right after the other.



So, there I was, looking like a derranged escapee from a psych ward holiday party, eatingg my salad and watching Rudolph the red-nosed custodian empty a granola bar wrapper and a crumpled sheet of paper from my waste basket. When she inexplicably leaves me an extra bag.

"I'll leave you this extra bag, so when you're done with your salad, you can throw it away without messing up your trash."

Um. I wasn't aware that we were concerned about "messing up" the garbage cans. I was always under the impression that the garbage cans were there for us to...well...throw garbage in.

Nonetheless, ten minutes later I found myself holding open the loose bag to toss the remains of my gigantic salad in. What I'm going to do with this bag full of soggy lettuce, I'm no entirely sure, but I think that this place has finally gotten to me. No sooner do I shrug and toss the container than it rips through the bottom of the bag and salad goes flying all over my floor.

I'm sure glad I didn't mess up my garbage can.

To Market, to Market

I took a train that is 5 minutes later than my normal train. Hilarity and hijinks ensued. For reasons unknown, this train is incredibly crowded. So crowded I can't even get close enough to a bar to hold onto, so I plant the 3-inch heels of my boots firmly and trying to look hardcore.

The teenage girl next to me moves closer to her boyfriend. How nice, this way I can hold on to the bar.

Or, I can just catch the oral herpes from her practically mounting him on the subway car.

It's only been two blocks and already I've decided that their parents don't allow Romeo and Juliet here to see one another and the train ride to school is the only time they can let their forbidden romance blossom. Either that, or this chick is just mauling random dudes she met on the subway.

She gets off 3 blocks later. I need a shower and a cigarette.

Mass exodus. I dive for a seat.

A stop later, a very pregnant woman gets on. I vacate my seat. A burly construction worker takes it. Everyone else opens their books. Seriously, Philadelphia? No one wants to let the little pregnant girl sit down? Weaksauce.

5 minutes later, I'm sitting on my trolley, wondering why it smells like pee. I look across the aisle and see the person in the nearest seat. Oh, that's why.

I'm trying to find a non-obvious way to hide my nose in my scarf so I can breathe and notice the odd shiny spot on the floor. Please let that not be pee, please let that not be pee.

Oh, good. It's coffee. Coffee from the empty cup the angelic-looking little girl in front of me is playing with. Also, playing, not with her Disney Princess backpack, but with an empty Dunkin' Donuts bag. Oh good lord. Please tell me her father isn't just letting her get god-knows-what from playing with random trash.

He tells her to make sure she throws out her cup, too. Oh thank God. It's her trash. HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING YOUR TRASH ON THE SEPTA LITTLE GIRL?

I think the Metro summed it up best when discussing the massive marketing campaign for "The Walking Dead:" Good thing they're not doing the zombie thing in Philadelphia, we have enough people riding the SEPTA covered in blood.

Days of Our Lives

Just a typical day for Hurricane Lola:

8am: Double-check the email to make sure nothing has changed before my 8:15 meeting. Debate the merits of having my coffee mug in the board room to keep me warm and awake versus possibly offending the new head honcho; who, despite being my immediate superior, will probably not decide to meet with me individually for at least a month, if ever.

8:10am: Walk across the hall to board room.

8:11am: Back quickly into hallway so as not to interrupt the meeting that is clearly in session.

8:13 am: Learn from eavesdropping that my meeting has been canceled.

8:14 am: Growl at email inbox, which contains no notice of this.

9:00 am: Productive meeting lasting less than a half an hour. Note the date and circle it victoriously.

9:30 am: Read up on some exciting (read: mind-numbingly dull) literature on programs and risk assessment for the coming fiscal year.

10:00 am: Email my "mentor" to set up emergency telephone session to discuss the rather disturbing meeting I had yesterday regarding just what constitutes a "promise" made to one by their employer.

10:05-11:00 am: Actual, concrete, helpful work. Redrafting some truly terrible questions.

11:05 am: Reflect that I probably did not need my J.D. for that.

11:07 am: Briefly fantasize about a job where I do need my J.D.

11:08 am: Remember the friends who are currently using their J.D.'s to work at Starbucks. Attempt to quit whining.

11:30 am: A sign canceling my 8:15 am meeting is now on the board room door. WTF?

11:59 am: Unexpected visit from Lily, who is about to kill her temporary office visitor.

12:30 pm: Lunch with Lily, her temporary office visitor, and Cheese. Bitching ensues.

1:15 pm: I get my mentors voice mail.

1:30 pm: Attempt to make a plan for my truly evil project. Eat M & Ms instead.

2:00 pm: Nasty-gram from the Illinois State Bar regarding employers. And how some of them, including my FREAKIN' LAW SCHOOL, haven't returned references.

2:02 pm: Briefly ponder how it's possible that my law school has not returned this reference. Wonder if I'm the first person they've ever employed that has later taken the Illinois Bar. Doubt it.
2:04 pm: Frantic phone calls and emails.

2:30 pm: Not much headway on evil project. Gnash my teeth.

2:45 pm: Mentor's voicemail again.

3:00 pm: Email from woman I met with last week regarding a part of the project. Without giving too much away, it essentially says "Yeah, when we started looking at this, we realized we weren't being paid for a lot of this. And we just kinda leave it at that." WHA?

3:01 pm: I think I just had a stroke.

3:02 pm: Contemplate suicide.

3:03 pm: Decide to work on other parts of project plan until I can grasp exactly what I'm supposed to do with that answer.

3:15 pm: Robo-call from the Mayor.

3:17 pm: Call from Mercy Hospital back in ThirdTierVille. "Following Up" on another bill from an encounter I'm pretty sure I already paid for.

3:30 pm: Contemplate homicide.

3:45 pm: Eat a TastyKake instead.

3:50 pm: Talk to Sue about project. Encourage her to temporarily ignore email. Or at least eat a TastyKake.

4:06 pm: "Stress Walk" to Lily's office. Bitching ensues.

5:30 pm: Free cocktails at Gallery.

Deep Thoughts

Do I call everyone "hookers" too much?

The Streets of Philadelphia

To celebrate a friend's passing the Pennsylvania bar (and a belated celebration that I passed a bar exam in a state where I sadly, will not be living/practicing for at least a few years), we took to the streets of Philly lookin' for trouble.

Too bad it was the wrong street. Rose's friend texted us the wrong cross-streets, so we wandered for a few minutes, before we asked a cop in mid-arrest for directions (as you do). The streets were also not so friendly. When we originally passed this group of Philadelphia's finest, they were engaged in a slight word-skirmish with some kid, probably about 19 years old. From what we got out of it, the boys in blue were just patrolling the street and wanted to see the kid's ID for some reason. Being a kid, he seemed to have asked why. And then said that he'd show them his ID if they'd tell him why. Then, Quickdraw pulled his cuffs. We walked down the block trying to find the bar, but really, trying to puzzle out why the kid was being arrested. Other than a smart mouth and bored cops.

I encouraged Rose, as a newly-minted officer of the Pennsylvania courts, to stick up for the kid and ask the officers why they were arresting him. In a good life decision, she said this instead, earning my eternal admiration:
"Excuse me officer, I see that you're kinda in the middle of something, but could you tell us where THEYUPPIEBAR is?"

In hindsight, it was probably a better idea than my suggested opening line: "Excuse me officer, but where's your reasonable suspicion that a crime is being committed?" We're fresh out of law school, and don't have bail money. I didn't need to take the chance that Trigger would get all cuff-happy on me.

The cop, incidentally, gave us the correct directions. Thanks!

We had pre-gamed. Can ya tell? Incidentally, I wonder if my friends and I, being in our mid-twenties to early thirties, are just a leetle too old to "pregame." I can try to dress it up by saying that we met at my house and had cocktails before we left, but seriously, everyone knows that we were pre-gaming. For right now I'm broke and can't afford to drink exclusively at THEYUPPIEBAR and its ilk, so get over it, hookers.

The night was full of good life decisions, such as Rose preventing me from peeing in an alley after the bar randomly closed its bathroom. 'Splain that one to me.

Other than almost peeing in a cab on my way back to the Nunnery, the night was a complete success, complete with a 3:00 am showing of "Hocus Pocus" with some new friends.

How have you all been celebrating/mourning the bar results?

Taking the Plunge

There's truly something to be said for living alone. My house is never messed up. And if it is, I know exactly who did it and I can decide when I will fix it up.

I was feeling a little blue the other day about being all alone with no one to watch goofy Halloween movies with me and to help me eat my produce before it goes bad. And then I talked to my sister, the football widow. If she's not waiting for him to get home from coaching, or going to his games, she's watching football on t.v. Alone I may be, but I don't watch a god damned thing on t.v. that I don't want to watch.

There is a downside, however; cooking for yourself sucks. As does doing all of the work yourself. I was in no angelic mood upon my return to the city of brotherly love this week, as every elevator along the EL line seemed to be out of order and I dragged my overweight suitcase halfway across center city only to find that my toilet was backed up. And I don't have a plunger. And on Sundays, the maintenance crew will not come over to unstick your toilet.

I did not think much of this. There are several small markets within four blocks from my house (as an aside: I need a name for my home. I am considering "The Nunnery," as it is an old, converted convent; but I feel that I should name it something "acre." Perhaps "Blueacre," because the door is blue).

I was not discouraged when the first small market was out of plungers.

But, three unsuccessful stops later, I was wondering what grudge the merchants of Philadelphia had against the noble toilet plunger, a fairly ubiquitous household item. I tried three small markets on my way further west. No joy. Does noone have plumbing problems in this city? I mean, it's bad enough that my toitey was out of order, but having to ask roughly 300,000 shop owners where they keep the plungers is just adding insult to injury. Worse, though, is having to explain what you're looking for to the ones who clearly don't grasp english all that well. I literally had to make hand gestures to accompany my explanation to one gentleman. Who did not stock the wretched things.

In the end, I took a twenty minute walk to the national chain drug store. Which, thankfully, was not too proud for plungers. Though they euphemistically called it a "force cup." I had to laugh at that, dish-gloved to my elbows and plunging away. "Force cup," indeed. I am a plumbing wizard.

A Girl Walks into a Bar. . .

Or she just passes it.


I was pretty sure this morning that today was going to suck until about 6pm. First of all, I knew I was going to have to check a bag on my flight home. Second of all, our White House tour got delayed by two hours, which meant I was missing it so I could catch a plane.

I was not feeling much better when I missed the 12:20 MARC train to BWI or when the 1:05 Amtrak I caught stopped in the middle of Maryland so they could inspect the motor. Myself, I would have preferred they check the motor, you know, BEFORE several hundred people boarded the train. But, hey, to each their own. I do not have a good track record with BWI and tonight is D's bachelorette party. I had to get on this plane. I made it, and was looking forward to some down time and an inflight cocktail to rearrange my head.

As I boarded the plane, Olivia called me to inform me that Illinois bar exam results were in. I had a nightmare the other night that the results came in, but my computer kept crashing before the website loaded. My subconscious has a pretty good handle on how shit goes down in my life. I made the snap decision to pay for the overpriced Wi-fi, even after paying way-too-much to check a bag. Computie boots up nicely, I enter my CC info through gritted teeth, say a quick prayer and log on to iBaby to see....

My results are not yet posted.

I blink. I know that Stephy got his results. His last name is later in the alphabet than Lawless.

I try googling it. I get re-directed to iBaby. No results.

Just when I'm cursing the Illinois State Bar and Delta Airlines wi-fi, I refresh iBaby and a notification pops up. Cursing the flight attendants for being so slow with the cocktail I need to steady my nerves, I click it.

"Dear Ms. Lawless:
We are pleased to advise that you have passed the July 2010 Illinois bar examination."

As I type, I milking that $4.95 in interwebs charges and sippin' a G&T.

So, Congrats to all the new Illinois Lawyers!!!!!!

And to close:
"Karen, I'm a laywer. Which means I, unlike you, have actually passed a bar."

I Don't Give a Damn 'Bout My Bad Reputation

Law students are already back to the grind (well, most of them are, I suppose). While suffering through a disastrous Wednesday evening, I thought about a bit of advice given to all first year law students, usually at their orientation: your reputation as a lawyer begins now. Most students begin studiously ignoring that advice at the open-bar social event at the end of their orientation.

It's good advice for anyone, really: your reputation as a professional begins now. As I sat across a table from a 30-year-old man who made increasingly obnoxious comments about getting me into bed and then pouting when I politely turned him down, I realized that I would go out of my way to avoid working with him. Ever. And I would discreetly encourage every woman I know to do the same.

It should be obvious that I'm no prude. But, making graphic sexual inquiries to a co-worker that you just met is over the line. Also, I never gave any sign that I was interested in so much as harmless flirting. And when I politely (me! polite!) declined his advances, he kept at it. Did I mention I'm a c0-worker? Seriously, asshat, the response to "I just thought this was a friendly outing. I'd like to just be friends" is not "Well, what about letting me go down on you? Or giving me a back rub in your underwear?"

EXCUSE ME? Now, typically, this is where the vodka and glass starts to fly. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option, so I glared, and managed to keep my voice even as I replied.

"When I said I wasn't going to go to bed with you, I meant it. I'm sorry that I offended you, but you asked me to give you a straight answer. I can't explain why and I don't have to." When he attempted to give me a hug and a cheek-kiss at the end of the evening, I shouted "off!" like I was talking to a dog. Actually, it was exactly the way I give a command to my dog. (Most people reacted to this story with indignation. Barney kinda--shrugged. Like he wouldn't have done something like that, but he still found it mildly amusing. Until further notice, I'm no longer speaking to you, B.)

People, take heed: This is absolutely inexcusable behavior. I will never see his name on an email without thinking of this incident. And that's not good. (Update: Jackass had the nerve to call me and email me today. Whiskey, tango, foxtrot?)

I know this behavior is egregious, but honestly, it's not just extreme behavior like this that reflects poorly on you. There are people I went to school with that I decided I would never work with by the end of our first week. Some people took a little longer. You all know who I'm talking about: the one who couldn't tell you what class they were in, much less the rule of law in the case they were presenting; the one who was sweating vodka every Tuesday morning by 10; the one who couldn't find a shower with a map and a tour guide; the smarmy bastard so utterly convinced of his own cleverness that the professor couldn't get through calling on the first student without a "helpful" comment from Mr. Smarty-pants.

The gunners, so desperate to be regarded as intelligent contributors to the class that they come up with questions that are so far removed from reality that they no longer have anything to do with the subject (Q: What if a meteor drops on D after he pulls out the gun, but before he shoots Vic? A: We don't prosecute smoking craters in this country. No, not for attempt. Not for anything.).

Mr. Racist/Sexist/Homophobic. Just shut up. By now, you should recognize the groaning sound that sweeps through a 100 person lecture hall every time you open your mouth (My favorite: If you don't like the schools in the inner-city because they're so bad, why don't you just move?)

The person who uses scare tactics and/or underhanded dealings to "get ahead." Dude, if the only way you can get ahead is by checking out ALL of the study aids on a topic, you've got a problem. Trying to screw with other people doesn't make you smarter.

The lazy one who never pulls their weight on a class group project or in the student organization.

The whiny one who complains constantly about the unfairness/workload of a student organization they competed to get into. On a public forum. (We seriously had a person write a piece about the fact that Law Review was "A lot of work. And the assignments aren't fun." No kidding. We never marketed ourselves as a social organization. We publish a scholarly journal. We don't organize sorority mixers. It's a lot of hard work.

And the person, who, just couldn't deal with other people. You don't have to be a slacker to screw up a team. You can be malicious. You can be overbearing. You can be inflexible. You can be so insecure that you spend all of your energy trying to put on a show so you'll be liked. If you spent half as much time just doing your work as you do spreading rumors, bullying other people, or trying to be someone you think everyone wants you to be; you'd be a pleasure to work with. And people wouldn't peg you as being a bitch/bully/phony right off the bat.

Seriously, I know I can be cranky, and I say "fuck" way too much, but I also know that I go out of my way to treat my colleagues with respect. And yes, I'm aware that no one can be perfect all the time (God knows I'm not) but please, do yourselves a favor: do not make these habits. Don't be that person. It may seem like common sense, but I had at least one actual person in mind for each of the above. Be the person that others want to go into business with. Not the one that people move out of state to get away from.

Small Victories

Office Space Update:
Wednesdays are the days Cocky Cowboy usually rides into town. Last week, he didn't ride into my office.

Victory.

Let's see if we can make it two weeks?

Ice, Ice Baby

To quote the ever-amazing "1776," "It's hot as hell in Philadelphia." On a side note, I will soon (yay!) live within a few blocks of Independence Hall--the site portrayed in that fabulous movie (which I totally watched this weekend). Envy me. I so want to stage a flash-musical rendition of "But Mr. Adams" one night while I'm there. Let me know if you want in.

Hot as it is, it is a wonderful feeling to walk into my air-conditioned office every morning. And it remains a great feeling--for about 10 minutes. Then, it's like sitting in a walk-in freezer. My first day in the office the maintenance staff was "fixing" my a/c. Allegedly, they were correcting a problem with the thermostat. If "correcting" means "setting the a/c to randomly start pumping out freezing air and 8:00 no matter where the thermostat is set," then I guess it's been corrected.

I'm aware that I am alaways cold, but when my office-mate has a parka on in August, I feel confident saying that it's not just me. Yesterday, I wore wool pants and a sweater over my top. I felt like an idiot. Then I looked at my fingernails and they were turning blue. I got up and went down the hall to Sue's office, obstensibly to talk about a project, but really because I got very tired and relaxed and I assumed it was because my heartrate was slowing and I was about to enter hibernation. I defrosted in Sue's office. She has the opposite problem--her a/c duct isn't connected to anything. She does have a funny little mobile unit, which I have lovingly nicknamed "R2."

Unable to procrastinate any longer, I returned to my office and checked the thermostat--it claimed to be 74. My teeth were chattering within 5 minutes. 74 my ass.

Wild, Wild West

Office Space Update: I've decided to...experiment this week. I'm not a passive-aggressive person by nature. Typically, I'm just flat-out aggressive. I'm not very fond of being passive-aggressive and I hate it when people act that way with me. If there's a problem, tell me, or even yell at me inapprorpriately. I can handle that. We can either talk rationally or have an argument. Either way, we express our feelings, get the problem out in the open, and most of the time, resolve the problem. Passive-aggression (I think I made up a word. Get over it.) usually just leads to a build-up of ever-pissier feelings until there's a complete breakdown of communication or an all-out brawl.

However, on Wednesdays, Cocky Cowboy comes to town. And so I've got to be prepared for our little showdown. In the only language he seems to understand: truly passive-aggressive and borderline immature gestures. I stuck my To-Do list to the computer monitor instead of the desk, left my notepad and some (non-sensitive) forms splayed across the surface. I also left the sweater I keep at the office to combat the arctic blast coming from our A/C draped over my chair. And, most annoying of all, instead of logging off my computer, I left it locked onto my user name. Which means that he'd have to know my network password to even use the workstation to type an email (he doesn't).

This is the part where I blow the smoke from my gun.

The Blind Side

I no longer believe in Murphy's law. I believe in Lola's law. Anything stupid and irritating will happen to me. I hadn't been in the city for a week and on my way to work, I missed my turn-off. No big deal. I took the next exit and turned around. Oh yeah, and while I was finishing my detour, I got into a car accident. At possibly the most screwed up intersection I've ever seen. I don't even know if the cop wrote the other guy a ticket (I know he didn't write me one).

So, there I was. Alone, in a strange city with no car and three dollars cash in my pocket. I have never been more glad that I pay extra for rental coverage (In passing, I note that most law students and lawyers I know have really good car insurance. Trust me, it's a good idea, especially if you live in a no-fault state. Like Pennsylvnia). Of course, I was not so happy when I had issues with my car at the Enterprise. Like, right as they were giving me the keys to the rental. Well, I couldn't get to the bank to figure out the issue. So, I had to find another way to work. Swell. Not like I could just call a friend and have them drive me, now is it? I managed it, waiting all the time for that magic moment when I'd be able to cry into my beer with a friend, maybe someone who had known me longer than 5 days. Texts and calls to various friends yield no results. I break down and accept that Barney is my best shot. At least he always has booze in the house.

"Hey, B. It's Lola. Are you around tonight? I'm in serious need of beer and bar food."
"Sorry! I'm out of town. Anything good going on tonight?"
"Not really. It's my first week of work and I got into a car accident this morning. I just really need to get out."
Being the concerned friend he is, he cuts right to the chase, "Why didn't you just take the SEPTA?"
Dude. Your concern is overwhelming.

Office Space

I work in a pretty nice environment. My co-workers are friendly, helpful and seem genuinely happy. I credit this to the fact that most of them are not lawyers. I find myself being happier and more friendly than normal when I am at work. I know, it's weird. I am, almost by definition, cynical, demanding, and prickly. Yet, when I go to work, I find myself smiling and upbeat. Like I said, it's weird.

But there's an exception to this rule of happy. The dark side of the happy halls of my office space. The office space. We're undergoing construction and, since we're a major hub,we frequently have people coming in from satellite offices for meetings or to staff projects. This means that space is at a premium. People find out who's out of town training or on a project, or just relocating and squat in their office. Mostly by getting there early in the morning, signing on to the computer, and locking it whenever they have to walk down the hallway. Seriously, it's like the Wild, Wild West. You have to get there early and stake your claim. Lay your briefcase down on the desk, and make damn sure you sign on to the computer and leave it locked rather than logging out whenever you have a meeting. It brings out the dark and twisty in our corporate culture. I got to work at my normal time the other day, about 7:45. And, I thought I walked into the wrong office. There was a guy sitting at my desk, as though he'd always been sitting there. I said hello and walked back out to check the plate. Cocky Cowboy gives me a withering stare. And then, the smirky sumbitch asks me what I'm looking for.
"My desk. This is office X, isn't it?" I say, pointedly, looking at the desk. Where I stupidly left only a few generic papers, insufficient to mark my territory. "I'm Lola, by the way. I'm working in the vaguely legal department." He condescended to introduce himself to me and then recline in my desk chair. I just stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to deduce that he was sitting in my space, and you know, maybe give it up and sit in one of the TWO OTHER empty workspaces, instead of the one I was clearly trying to get to. "Well, do you mind using the other desk?" He continued.
Knowing that I couldn't access my computer anyway and that all I had to do that day was some reading and prepping that I could do anywhere, I decided to take the high road, agreed, and sat down at my office mate's desk. I figured it was best not to make waves.

And then my phone rang. I could see from the caller I.D. that it was my supervisor. And he got all huffy when I asked him to please hand me the phone. And then he continued to passive-aggressively make faces and noises when people came into the office to meet with me or drop things off. He was even shirty with Bosslady. Bosslady was pissed. Bosslady is awesome.

Oh, hell no. I really don't know what it is about me that makes some men think they can treat me like they're some ditzy, vaguely irritating, caricature of an Eisenhower-era secretary. Maybe I smiled too much when I walked in, maybe my ponytail was too high, maybe it was a mistake to wear a dress with a floral pattern. Whatever. It won't happen again. Next time he is in my office, he will not sit at my desk, especially since once I get everything settled in I'll have sensitive information there. I made a trip to the little store and bought some stuff for my desk and resolved to get there even earlier the next day to stake my claim. In our little Western, he's the vaguely weak and evil cowboy who wears black and is missing teeth. I am the woman who runs the saloon and keeps a rifle under the bar and a tiny pistol in her cleavage. It's on, Cowboy. This office ain't big enough for the both of us. Give me back my office, or I'll shoot your ass off.

It's Always Sunny

Fun fact: I am incredibly indecisive about really minor shit. I am incredibly decisive about the big stuff. I can (and have) spent a half an hour debating between a Panera sandwich or take-out sushi for dinner. Meanwhile, a few months ago,I got a phone call and decided, at 2:00 on a Friday afternoon, "What the hell? I'll move to Philadelphia."

Actually, the move went pretty much the same way. I was staying with my sister in Panther Country, also known as East Jesus, USA, so my internet access (and contact with other people) was limited, to say the least. Seriously, my future brother-in-law was warned that he had to move his lawn tractor quickly to avoid being ticketed. Which begs two questions: 1) You can be ticketed for that? and 2) How often are tractors ticketed in front of your store that that's the first thing you say, woman?

Back to the point, I kinda blew out of town without any fanfare. It's not that I intended to get the hell out of Dodge like I was running out on my rent (even though it probably seemed that way). It's just that I was pressed for time and strapped for cash. Oh, and good-byes make me crazy. I always really want to see people before we leave, but sometimes making the big production feels forced, or, worse, final. And then I freak out. Which is silly, because I know to the date and approximate time the next time I will see a lot of people I had to say "good-bye" to. But, I'm kind of an emotional fuckwit about these things and making plans for "one last hurrah" totally freaks me out because that means I would have to acknowledge that I will not be able to spontaneously meet my favorite people for coffee, drinks, or cider mill runs. I have had exactly two moments of real clarity about this decision, and both were brief. Let's face it: I know like, four people here, two of whom I haven't seen in years and one who is Barney, and skilled as he is in the ways of convincing me to drink on week nights, he is about as equipped to handle my eventual crushing bout of homesickness as a jellyfish is to perform open heart surgery. The burden is going to fall overwhelmingly onto Thelma, and she lives on the other side of town.

It doesn't help that when I was driving into town, it started raining just as I entered the city limits. And then last night, a storm knocked out my hotel's satellite (and totally ruined my attempt to catch up on True Blood). Turns out, it's not always sunny in Philadelphia. After spending my morning locked out of my office and getting a blister from my favorite snakeskin heels (oh, like you couldn't predict that I would wear impractical, yet killer heels to work) there was no better time for me to stop driving around with my suitcases in my car like a nomad and discover the bottle of vodka tucked lovingly into a bag of my unmentionables (Eh, I'll mention them: thongs!)

Beyond Here Lies Nothin'

10:38 p.m. Central Time.

It's go time.

I arrived in Chicago last night, at the home of the amazing Amie Kus Curie, who had battened the hatches for the arrival of Hurricane Lola. This meant stocking the Homestead (which is fabulous by the way, townhouse, near public transportation with central air, four flours, two decks, a garage, 3 bathrooms, a huge kitchen with granite countertops and a washer dryer. Please take a moment and feel what I think Amie wants you to feel: jealous. Jealous of her kick-ass house and awesome life.) with supplies for her crazed bar examinee: bacon, toaster struedels, and vodka.

Amie well knows the insanity that is the bar, and so, her sacrifice is not to be diminished. Pete, who probably heaved a big ol' sigh of relief after Amie's bar hell was complete and never imagined he'd have to deal with it again, has displayed incredible fortitude in agreeing to walk through the valley of the shadow of bat-shit crazy by hosting me. Apparently, upon arriving home today, he saw that the door to the guest bedroom was closed and retired to another room to do something else, anything other than risk a run in with the Hurricane. Pete is wise. And he brought us pizza. Yummy!

As it transpired, I was watching the essay lecture, which I realized I never saw. Mostly because I was drugged and drooling on my couch the day it aired, and because the notes seemed to be pretty basic (The bar exam consists of two days? Shit, I better write that down!) But, I thought, "better safe than sorry. Maybe I'll pick up some tips." And maybe I did. But I also picked up some misinformation. Por ejemplo, she informed us that we would be provided with writing utensils for both days, so we couldn't bring any. WRONG. We will be provided with pencils on Wednesday when we sit the MBE (Aside: special thanks to the ass-goblin who found a way to cheat by bringing in his or her own pencils. Now, we all suffer because of you. Well done, dickwad. With all that time you spent figuring out what must be a ridiculously complicated method of cheating, you could have just, you know, studied.). I cannot imagine the rage of all the poor souls who listened to her when they show up tomorrow and find that writing utensils will not be provided for the essay exam. On the other hand, I judge them heavily for trusting anything not handed down from IBABY.

I did my dry-run this morning, as suggested and found a lunch place, a back-up lunch place, and a back-up for the back-up. Upon my arrival at my building, I noticed that the law school is hosting some sort of "Law Preview."

Dear God. WHY? Why in heavens name would you allow prospective students/tuition checks in the same building as people who are about to take the bar exam? My family has studiously avoided me except for text messages, because I can't yell over text messages (yet). In the past month, I have gone from getting carded constantly, to never getting carded at all. I look like a zombie. I sound like a schizophrenic person in the throes of the active stage. I alternate between stress-starving and scavenging through the fridge/pantry like a raccoon in a garbage can. I simmer so close to the surface that I almost cried last week when my iPod froze. And then almost cried again when I found out how to reset it. Those kids will go running. And you, fancy-pants law school will not get their money or the souls you need to power your building of doom. Fail.

I ran into someone clearly administering some program as I wandered the halls looking for my testing room. "Oh, are you here for the Law Preview?" he asked. Um. Not even close. But I'm flattered that I still looked human enough for you to assume I hadn't yet been to law school.

"Oh, no," I replied, "just doing my dry run for the bar tomorrow."

"Oh my God!" He exclaimed, clearly terrified (I'm surprised he didn't cross himself). "Good luck with that!"

It was like I had announed to him that I was getting a lethal injection tomorrow. I appreciate his sympathy, but so not helpful.

I'm actually not doing too bad (I don't think. I showered. Which is probably better than some people. George's stinky friend, I'm looking at you.). I had pizza (new Domino's is surprisingly tasty) and smokey treats and Madonna wine. I'm hoping that my new policy of not thinking about what I'm actually doing and just trying to write each esssay as it comes will work.

And as Nikki pointed out, what I do today is not that important (I mostly watched "Flipping Out," so, that's a good thing). It's what I did over the past three years and two months. I've worked my ass off, and so have most of the people I know taking this thing tomorrow.

So, to them I say, it's time to kick ass and take names. I'll see you on the otherside.

A Pep Talk

I'm up to it in Equity, Contracts, and Real Property. At this point, I'm going to be lucky to get through the rest of my outlines and do a few more practice problems, let alone staying on my PACED Program. My diet of coffee, nicotine, and toaster struedels is eating through my stomach lining. And I'm neurotic. I'm absolutely terrified that I will fail this exam. But, I don't really have the heart/time/brain power to write a proper post. So, I will take an actual AIM conversation (yes, some people still have those) between myself and the Amazing Amie Kus Curie, Esq., in the hopes that it will bring peace of mind to some of my fellow bar-takers (Amie, incidentally, is boarding me for my bar exam sojourn. She should be canonized as a saint. She knows what I'm like under normal stress and is still willing to let me into her home under bar exam stress and is buying me toaster struedels on top of it.). So, with proper credit to Ms. Curie, I present, a pep talk:

____________________________________________________

Lola: I am so in the weeds as far as bar review

Amie: psht. you are not

Lola: I'm behind. Not sleeping and being doped up on pain meds has not been helpful

Amie: psht. do you need a pep talk? because I can totally give one

you're lola fucking lawless.

you are not behind.

barbri is full of shit.

their schedule is a damn joke.

it is only mid-june.

you're smarter than most of the people taking the bar.

multiple choice? bitch, please. just practice them over and over and over and you'll be fine.

and the multi-state practice thingy or whatever the fuck it is - EASIEST THING IN THE WORLD. worth twice as much as an essay. just follow the rules. I literally didn't practice any of them, and thought it was so easy.

and, because it bears repeating, you're lola fucking lawless.

you don't drop the ball.

Lola: except when it's an actual ball. I'm terrible at sports

Amie: you have crazy hair and carry lots of books and make yourself sick and power through it and fucking turn around after the most devastating breakup ever to get published and graduate summa and utterly destroy the competition.

shut up. I'm talking. you're listening.

and you do it all while having fun and making friends and slaying men.

so to sum up: you're lola fucking lawless. it's early. you're not behind.

your crazy mind might make you THINK you're behind, but your behind is other people's keeping up or being ahead.

Lola: you give awesome pep talks

Amie: your behind is getting the second best grade in a class.

your behind is graduating summa cum laude.

your behind makes men drool.

(see what I did there?)

Lola: I did. it was awesome. a triumph of word play.

Amie: thanks.

so- shut up. you're not behind. you're lola fucking lawless. you will work hard, you will hate it, you will take the test, you will hate it, you will wait, you will hate it, and you will pass, whereupon you will stop hating it.

Lola: sounds do-able. Now I am pumped to destroy practice essays

Amie: marvelous. do it rockapella.

Lola: And now I have the Carmen Sandiego theme song stuck in my head. Which is even more awesome.

very motivating. I shall look it up on Youtube.

this is so awesome

ahhhhh, how can you not want to be smarter when you think about the awesomeness of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Amie: it's true.

Lola: did you ever play the Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego computer game?

Amie: OF COURSE I DID. second only to the oregon trail!

Lola: YES! I have the overwhelming desire to play all of those games now. Who cares about my crim law drill?

Amie: damnit woman! you're lola fucking lawless.

Lola: that's right. I will find a way to do both.

So, get out there, fellow bar-takers, and let's kick some ass!

Rise of the Machine

Everyone knows that Computie and I have a complicated relationship. Sure, we've been together through thick and thin; Computie even bounced back after that time I accidentally dumped a cup of coffee onto her 1L year. Sure, she makes it a point to update when the Exam Software is trying to reboot for a test, but I know that it's all in good fun. Sure, she occasionally makes screechy noises out of nowhere, causing people in a 10 foot radius to jump back in shock and shout, "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" and then look scared and pitying when I explain that it is just my computie. But, she has also safeguarded all my outlines, papers, articles (even though our Macro continuously froze her), and pictures. She and I have journeyed into the most pointless realms of the World Wide Web together. And she has (inadvertently) shared snacks with me. We're a team, dammit!

I got Computie as a bribe (ok, part of my scholarship package) from ThirdTier Law. Computie came fully loaded with all sorts of software necessary to the study of law and the avoidance of the study of law by dicking around on the interwebs. Computie used to run fast and amaze me with all the nifty little perks of my new operating system. Like the way-cool Google Toolbar that I had such fun customizing until its mysterious disappearance midway through my first year.

Computie is feeling her oats. I had to replace her power supply (well, my warranty did that), her keyboard (my fault, after the whole coffee incident), and her battery (which I had to pay for. Boo.) No matter how many times I clear off her disk space, I get a message 10 minutes later that I have low disk space. She freezes for no reason at all, and has started blocking "start up programs" (whatever those may be). Also, my Anti-virus subscription mysteriously expired almost immediately upon my graduation from ThirdTier Law (thanks, you cheapos).

But sometimes Computie does things that simply cannot be attributed to her age or my somewhat negligent computer ownership (I used to constantly put her to "sleep" and then forget she was in my backpack. She retaliated by burning my hands when I yanked her out). Some times, she just doesn't feel like doing something. No matter how hard I beg. Most of these things are just a matter of simply inconvenience or my annoyance (Google Toolbar=gone, baby, gone; and she never would do that cool thing where you switch between windows by looking at a stack of mini-windows). Some of these things, however, are really, really important.

I am behind in my bar review, between the move and apartment hunting, and so desired to watch my BarBri lectures at 1.5X speed. It shaves off about an hour from a three hour lecture. E, who has the same computer-bribe, informed me of the process. We have the same computer, same operating system, same softwear, same default factory settings. Her computer will allow her this amazing time saving technique (it also forces your concentration. Even if a lecturer is on a tangent, it doesn't last long, so you can't zone out). Computie, no matter how exactly I follow the directions, or try some of the tricks to make it work, will not comply. She'll run the lecture at 1.5X speed--but with NO SOUND. Or, I get a slow-ass lecture with sound. Sigh. I guess Computie believes that revenge is a dish best served cold and I'm finally getting my comeuppance.

She is in a state of revolt against me. And, if I'm ever found dead with mysterious electrical burns or a power cord wrapped around my throat, you'll know who did it.

MBE Preview: They're Ba-ack!

Ok, I'm about 3 weeks into my substantive review. I have notes for blog posts about all the lecturers written. They will be posted. They may not be in the most edited format, but they will be posted. I am still deciding if I want to wait to post until the lecturer has done all of his or her subjects. I probably will be that lazy. So, stay tuned, I will organize and post. I will also take this time to rant about the fact that I am about 3 weeks into my substantive review, and I am yet to have a female lecturer. Um, what? Are the women-folk not good enough to tell stale jokes and throw out lame neumonics about a subject for three and a half hours? Screw you, Illinois. Grr...

And, without further ado, I give you: MBE Preview: Con Law and Evidence.

Con Law. Great. Crazy Torts Lady is Back.

She still has volume moderation problems. "Let's talk about the commerce clause. This is important. At my law school, we split up Con Law into ConLaw I and ConLaw II." Um, what? How is that important?

On The Marriage Ref: "I think it has Matthew Broderick." Or--JERRY SEINFELD? Please, I haven't even seen this stupid sow and I know that Matthew Broderick is nont involved. I get that she's trying to relate to current events, but she loses points for being wrong and loses extra points for sullying the good name of an 80's icon (Inspector Gadget notwithstanding). I judge her for that comment almost as much as I judged her for whining about memorizing the multiplication tables. Bottom line: according to her, ConLaw is going to be the easiest MBE subject. Which is a damn good thing, because I got zilch out of that lecture.

Evidence.
Oh, my crim law buddy is back! I like him because he gives an overview of how many questions will likely be tested and some general tips up front.
On character evidence: "Oh yeah, he's violent. But he's incredibly honest! He is honest in his violence!"
Ok, his "MIMIC" voice is a bit much for me, but oh well. He does a nice, simple review.
On the most ridiculous M.O. ever conceived by the national board of bar examiners: "I'll admit, this guy took it too far. I've got some personal experience, and the duck call really attracts the ladies." I actually laughed out loud at this. I know I'mwatching a video, but I just got an image of this nerdy guy yanking out a duck call and playing it seductively. I need a moment again.
His Lost tie-in was far superior to The Marriage Ref. Not because it was more on point. But because he had his facts straight and because Lost is so far superior to The Marriage Ref that it's not even far to mention to two in the same blog post. Bottom line: nice review. I won't be seeing you anymore buddy, so, fare thee well.

Dubba-Dee

Taking an idea from Amie, who got it from Laura, this one is about my grandmother.
Unlike Laura, I knew my grandmother very well when she was still alive. She and my grandfather took my mother, sister, and I in after my father left. My mom had to work when we were young (still does, actually), so my grandparents helped raise D and I. My grandma was the one who picked us up from school and embarassed us by doing it in her hair rollers. She was the one who made us dinner before dance class and broke up our arguments.

She died two weeks before Christmas when I was 15. It's a sad story, and one that I won't get into here. But the point is, I knew my grandma. Very well. But she didn't live to see me graduate from high school, much less law school. Theoretically, I have no idea how she would have felt about my becoming a lawyer.

Laura and Amie, according to their blog posts, had very conservative German Lutheran Grandmothers. And, here's where we differ. My Grandma was neither German nor Lutheran. Grandma wasn't born in Italy, but she was younger than most of her sibling (she was one of ten). Also, inexplicably, their family was Protestant---which denomination, I'm not sure, but she never went to church anyway, so I don't think it matters. She did convert to Catholocism after my Grandfather passed away, just in case, though Lord knows she found the entire religion bewildering. Whenever she came to mass with us (my Grandpa's family was the more typical Catholic Italian variety). She was bemused by the constant standing and kneeling, "What is this? An aerobics class?" she'd grumble. She soberly informed me that all priests are alcoholics (all that communion wine) and, thank to her vivid mental picutres about what I could catch from sharing the wine cup, I haven not taken communion wine, ever. Ever. In over 15 years. No wine. Me. Passing up free booze. That's power.

She was a powerful woman. Not in the conventional sense that you'd think of. She wasn't leading the charge into the workforce, busting the glass ceiling with a red powersuit and a briefcase. But she was ahead of her time. She was a stay-at-home mom who cooked and cleaned and raised the kids, but for anyone who met her and my mild-mannered grandpa, there was no doubt who really called the shots. She was a fiesty, outspoken little fireball who encouraged our independence, ruled her roost, and yelled at telemarketers, annoying neighbors, and any kids who messed with her grandkids.

Meeting her would probably explain a lot about me. We have similar sense of humor, thought it must be admitted she probably didn't joke about sex as much or say "fuck" quite as much as I do. And, her political views were not fiercely conservative (a note about my family: political views take sides rather than generations; my father's family= conservative, mother's family=liberal. I bet you can all guess what side I take after) . She always (probably facetiously) said that she voted for whoever was best looking. For eight years, that meant Bill Clinton.

She was not afraid or disapproving of strong women and she never expected us to shrink into the woodwork. In a lot of ways, I wasn't a typical little girl. A lot of little girls want to be nurses, teachers, or ballerinas. I wanted to be a lawyer. Early on, I was more comfortable with adults than I was with most kids my own age. As anyone who knew me can attest, I was a strange kid. She got me, her special little snowflake, and was unfailingly supportive. Though we never expressly discussed whether she was proud of my chosen career path, I knew she was always proud of my academic aptitude and ambition. Every time I (or any of the other kids) had some little success at school, she'd talk about it to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen--usually family members having coffee and cake on Sunday mornings.

The idea thatI was going into a "man's field" didn't seem to have occurred to her; or, if it did, it certainly didn't faze her. She was so proud of her granddaughter who was smarter than a lot of the boys she competed against. She loved her family, but I get the impression that if she'd been born 40 or 50 years later, things may have been different. I can only imagine her raising hell in a "man's world."

Grandma died before I got my driver's license. She did not see me graduate from high school. She didn't see me graduate from college. She didn't get to see me graduate from law school. But I don't have to wonder. She would be proud of me. So proud of her special, weird, little snowflake. She would be full-to-bursting with pride, smug-as-hell, driving her brother and sister nuts over coffee proud.