A night at home with Lola and Finn:
I'm about to hack up a lung, a lung which feels like it's being dipped in acid. Finn is tossing a coin and catching it in the dining room, watching me white-knuckle the counter and gasp for air like the goldfish in those asthma commercials. For the sake of expediency, I will just reproduce our conversation verbatim:
Finn: So.....when you die, how long should I wait to call the ambulance before it's ruled some sort of assisted suicide or something? Like, can I just stand here doing this and watch you gasp for air and collapse?
Lola: Please call the ambulance while I'm dying and then I'd appreciate some CPR.
Finn: I don't want to catch what you've got!
Lola: Thanks, babe. . . . Ok, If I were you, I'd help me to bed while I'm dying and then pop in a movie. Wait an hour or so. Then, go into my room, make sure I'm gone and then call EMS. Tell them I went to bed because I wasn't feeling well and you could hear me coughing. Then I stopped coughing and you yelled to see if I was ok. I didn't answer, so you came in to check on me and I was already gone.
Finn: Why do I get the impression that this is exactly what you've got planned to do to me?
Lola: I would at least try to give you CPR.
Friendship. We haz it. I maintain that he wants the bigger bedroom and the walk-in closet.
Later, another attack of the Lola-can't-breathe...
Finn: Are you alive?
Lola: I believe so. Barely.
Finn: Are you ok with being alive?
Lola: I'd rather not be.
Finn: Please don't die before the next rent check is due.
In Finn's defense, he did make me hot cider because I was laying on the couch whining about wanting some. When I get better, I'll probably even let him live.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Abyss
Law school is a cesspool, a veritable breeding ground for germs and new and strange diseases. No one cares for themselves properly, because we don't have the time or the fucking will to live. We don't sleep, eat cheap take-out and gas station food from Spazzy's and binge drink on the weekends to forget about how much our lives generally suck, what with the sleep deprivation, deteriorating relationships, impending unemployment, and constant sense that you're about to be competing with your best friends. We feed off of each others' stress. One person stresses about getting turned down for a job. The rest of us flip, because not only are we worried that this awesome student can't get a job, but then we are struck with the horrifying realization that it means that you have to compete for already scarce jobs, with someone who is not only incredibly qualified, but is also your friend. People with jobs lined up can't even fucking enjoy them as they should, because they know that their friends are imagining themselves playing banjo on a street corner for money. Except most of us don't know how to play banjo, so we'd have to settle for playing Guitar Hero, and I don't think anyone would give me any money to watch me play "Hungry Like the Wolf" on "Easy."
So, we sit for hours in close, confined spaces, stressing, and gnawing through stale bagels like a trapped coyote chewing off its own leg. There's no fresh air, there's no natural light. There's no way around it. It's hard. It's supposed to be. "If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." I have to tell myself this on the days when the only daylight I see is ten minutes on the way to work and five on the way to class. Because when I get to campus, I get the by-product of the price we pay for greatness: a petri dish of exotic, mutating germs. There's the typical coughing and sneezing, the sniffles. Fair enough. But no one can take time off, so we get sicker, and my cough runs into Luke's fever in the elevator, and they mate, and while we hunker down to crank out a complaint and master some sort of understanding of intestate property division on the per stirpes system, the Cough/Fever couple runs into Jenny's body ache and invite it to a threesome. And, despite the fact that we're all supposedly going to die of H1N1, no one wants to chance getting behind unless they've actually got the Hamthrax. That's Karen's sinus congestion comes across the Ache/fever/cough and now we've got a fourgy. And they must be into some kinky shit, because somehow or another, when it comes back around, it's mutated and added inner ear pain.
Everyone feels marginally better, which means it's time to drink like we're auditioning to be Bluto Blutarsky's replacement at the Delta House. On Sunday, we realize that the sore throat someone picked up from a fundergrad at the bar has joined the fun, and we've got a full-on gang-bang goin' on in our throats/heads/noses. And, we incubate. At this point, I'm less concerned with Hamthrax and more concerned that some of my classmates are going to start sprouting tentacles from their noses like some sort of "Alien" movie reject or the stand-in for Davy Jones.
Sunday is also a time to ruminate on the poor decisions made over the past 2 or 3 days. In college, we used to wander into the lounge and compare our drunk bruises (or, as E calls them, "UDI's"). Now, there is a slew of phone calls, and discussions over overpriced coffee to piece together and dissect the weekend. This is usually accomplished by looking through text messages and cameras. I have a friend who carries a camera and cell phone specifically for the purpose of retracing and reassembling the weekend's antics. Today, I'm doing it with the assistance of a "Flipping Out" marathon, and my fantasies of Jeff Lewis becoming my new gay boyfriend. He is, after all, my soulmate.
Thankfully, this was actually a pretty tame weekend for Hurricane Lola. After falling asleep sitting up on my couch (with the result that my right cheekbone is incredibly tender), Finn and I joined the P-funks for a night of killer sangria (which I managed to spill on the carpet), Rockband, and discussion of important topics such as a man nicknamed "Jimmy Horseballs" and the virtues of punctuality. He-funk and Finn are discussing the virtues and flaws of Darcy, the closet gentleman who went from normal speed, to middle-school slow, to way too much for the emotional fuckwittery that is Lola at the moment. He-funk, no doubt prefacing a derrogatory comment about Mr. Darcy's personality, leads in with this "He's a good guy. He's nice, he's polite, he's sweet. He's...punctual." It occurs to She-funk and I that if "punctual" makes the top five in a list of positive traits, it's the equivalent of saying that they have the personality of an empty pizza box. Apparently, he doesn't make eye contact. He-funk continues, "but, he's kind of douchey." Finn jumps into the fray "Is he kind of douchey? How would I know? He never makes eye contact!"
Last night, I think the worse decision I made was trying to sing "Sympathy for the Devil" on Rock Band. I greatly underestimated how many "Woohoo's!" there are at the end of that song. After "The Medium Squad" rocked it out, Finn turns to me and remarks "I'm surprised you're still lucid after that." I'm surprised by two things: 1) that I remained conscious and 2) that someone called me lucid.
And, appropos of of nothing, Keep Fucking that Chicken.
So, we sit for hours in close, confined spaces, stressing, and gnawing through stale bagels like a trapped coyote chewing off its own leg. There's no fresh air, there's no natural light. There's no way around it. It's hard. It's supposed to be. "If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." I have to tell myself this on the days when the only daylight I see is ten minutes on the way to work and five on the way to class. Because when I get to campus, I get the by-product of the price we pay for greatness: a petri dish of exotic, mutating germs. There's the typical coughing and sneezing, the sniffles. Fair enough. But no one can take time off, so we get sicker, and my cough runs into Luke's fever in the elevator, and they mate, and while we hunker down to crank out a complaint and master some sort of understanding of intestate property division on the per stirpes system, the Cough/Fever couple runs into Jenny's body ache and invite it to a threesome. And, despite the fact that we're all supposedly going to die of H1N1, no one wants to chance getting behind unless they've actually got the Hamthrax. That's Karen's sinus congestion comes across the Ache/fever/cough and now we've got a fourgy. And they must be into some kinky shit, because somehow or another, when it comes back around, it's mutated and added inner ear pain.
Everyone feels marginally better, which means it's time to drink like we're auditioning to be Bluto Blutarsky's replacement at the Delta House. On Sunday, we realize that the sore throat someone picked up from a fundergrad at the bar has joined the fun, and we've got a full-on gang-bang goin' on in our throats/heads/noses. And, we incubate. At this point, I'm less concerned with Hamthrax and more concerned that some of my classmates are going to start sprouting tentacles from their noses like some sort of "Alien" movie reject or the stand-in for Davy Jones.
Sunday is also a time to ruminate on the poor decisions made over the past 2 or 3 days. In college, we used to wander into the lounge and compare our drunk bruises (or, as E calls them, "UDI's"). Now, there is a slew of phone calls, and discussions over overpriced coffee to piece together and dissect the weekend. This is usually accomplished by looking through text messages and cameras. I have a friend who carries a camera and cell phone specifically for the purpose of retracing and reassembling the weekend's antics. Today, I'm doing it with the assistance of a "Flipping Out" marathon, and my fantasies of Jeff Lewis becoming my new gay boyfriend. He is, after all, my soulmate.
Thankfully, this was actually a pretty tame weekend for Hurricane Lola. After falling asleep sitting up on my couch (with the result that my right cheekbone is incredibly tender), Finn and I joined the P-funks for a night of killer sangria (which I managed to spill on the carpet), Rockband, and discussion of important topics such as a man nicknamed "Jimmy Horseballs" and the virtues of punctuality. He-funk and Finn are discussing the virtues and flaws of Darcy, the closet gentleman who went from normal speed, to middle-school slow, to way too much for the emotional fuckwittery that is Lola at the moment. He-funk, no doubt prefacing a derrogatory comment about Mr. Darcy's personality, leads in with this "He's a good guy. He's nice, he's polite, he's sweet. He's...punctual." It occurs to She-funk and I that if "punctual" makes the top five in a list of positive traits, it's the equivalent of saying that they have the personality of an empty pizza box. Apparently, he doesn't make eye contact. He-funk continues, "but, he's kind of douchey." Finn jumps into the fray "Is he kind of douchey? How would I know? He never makes eye contact!"
Last night, I think the worse decision I made was trying to sing "Sympathy for the Devil" on Rock Band. I greatly underestimated how many "Woohoo's!" there are at the end of that song. After "The Medium Squad" rocked it out, Finn turns to me and remarks "I'm surprised you're still lucid after that." I'm surprised by two things: 1) that I remained conscious and 2) that someone called me lucid.
And, appropos of of nothing, Keep Fucking that Chicken.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
What Lola Wants
There's a little saying about law school: "First year they scare you to death, second year they work you to death, and third year they bore you to death." Well, it's only taken me a month, and I can tell you, it's absolutely true. Except with the added bonus of me being stressed out of my goddamn mind about finding a job. A HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN clerkship applications and the only response I've gotten is three "thanks, but no thanks" emails. Blah.
It's recently come to my attention that we have some new readers. To you newbies, I say "Welcome! Also, don't talk about Fight Club outside of Fight Club."
Finn is lying on the back of the couch, trying to will the remote into his hand. It's going badly.
After a day of drinking and narrowly avoiding being peed on (Nikki's words, not mine) we're walking back to V's car so we can eat and sober up for round two. A bald man bends down in front of us and flexes his "muscles." "What do you think about this?" He asks us. What does Lola think? I think he's a fucking idiot. I choose to express this by taking my wristlet of justice and thwapping him across the top of his bald head. Nikki giggles and I keep walking.
Round two, party at Bruiser's house a nap, clothing change, bowl of soup and piece of pizza later. I've coaxed some beer out of the reluctant tap and am wondering if I can get drunk again before it's time to leave. V makes a joke about me having a morally-relaxed attitude. "Haha, it's funny. Lola's a whore. You're charting some new territory there, Magellan." Looks are exchanged over the top of the keg. Ok, maybe I'm into making some bad decisions. I decide to go with it. An hour in the fitness center was not enough to make my id quiet down and shut up. I'm ushered from the party, having promised to call and engage in some more poor decision-making.
I sit in the car, realizing that I didn't get drunk. I grin. Excellent. At 2:30 a.m., I'm driving back to pick up Bruiser. Phone call. I pick up, expecting random drunk shenanigans. It was drunk, definitely, random, certainly but the calller is telling me some interesting information and all of a sudden, I'm in a towering fury. I white-knuckle my steering wheel, laugh and hang up. Luckily for the recipient of my anger, I'm picking up Bruiser and an hour delay to go beat someone's ass would have been difficult to explain. He jumps in, and apparently, my rage hasn't entirely subsided because I'm still gripping the steering wheel so hard I might actually yank it off and I'm driving fast enough for him to call me "Nascar." As I'm in the hallway fiddling with my keys in the lock and having my top unbuttoned I think, "I know a good way to work off some aggression."
I'll spare you all the details, but it was an even better idea than the fitness room. What Lola wants, Lola gets. I woke up with fewer bruises though. I think I'll wait until they fade to atempt a round 3. It's like the little blue bristles on your toothbrush. When they turn white, it's time to get a new one.
Id wants a pretzel and a slurpee at Target. I give in, even though I just did a blow-out grocery shop. It was every bit as good as I could have wanted. Id is pleased.
Finn has given up on the remote and is tying a tie over his pajamas.
I've been informed that I'm some sort of soul-sucking, lying, drama-manufacturing succubus. Shame. I guess you can't please everybody. I accidentally hit my bruised arm against the end table. Hm. Maybe I am some sort of succubus. I don't hear anyone complaining. Most often, I hear Nikki laughing on the other end of the phone.
Phone call: It's Nikki. She called to tell me that she's intoxicated. I'm waiting for V to pick me up for the downtown festivals. I'm about to tell her that I'm going to keep her hubby out of trouble for her while she's away, when she gets distracted and ends the call.
Downtown, I see my old roomate from the Hash Palace. The one with the demon cat. I pretend not to see him. I then get one of my all-time favorite voicemails:
"Lo, it's Nikki. Why you no pick up my call? Is it because you didn't want to tell me where you were going?" And then she giggles, tells me to be safe and hangs up.
Id wants beer and Mexican food. As I finish my taco, I realize that Id has some amazing ideas and vow to indulge it a little bit more.
Well, it's time for me to guilt myself into doing my work. So, I bid you adieu (except the ones I'll see tonight) and to my new readers: stay tuned.
It's recently come to my attention that we have some new readers. To you newbies, I say "Welcome! Also, don't talk about Fight Club outside of Fight Club."
Finn is lying on the back of the couch, trying to will the remote into his hand. It's going badly.
After a day of drinking and narrowly avoiding being peed on (Nikki's words, not mine) we're walking back to V's car so we can eat and sober up for round two. A bald man bends down in front of us and flexes his "muscles." "What do you think about this?" He asks us. What does Lola think? I think he's a fucking idiot. I choose to express this by taking my wristlet of justice and thwapping him across the top of his bald head. Nikki giggles and I keep walking.
Round two, party at Bruiser's house a nap, clothing change, bowl of soup and piece of pizza later. I've coaxed some beer out of the reluctant tap and am wondering if I can get drunk again before it's time to leave. V makes a joke about me having a morally-relaxed attitude. "Haha, it's funny. Lola's a whore. You're charting some new territory there, Magellan." Looks are exchanged over the top of the keg. Ok, maybe I'm into making some bad decisions. I decide to go with it. An hour in the fitness center was not enough to make my id quiet down and shut up. I'm ushered from the party, having promised to call and engage in some more poor decision-making.
I sit in the car, realizing that I didn't get drunk. I grin. Excellent. At 2:30 a.m., I'm driving back to pick up Bruiser. Phone call. I pick up, expecting random drunk shenanigans. It was drunk, definitely, random, certainly but the calller is telling me some interesting information and all of a sudden, I'm in a towering fury. I white-knuckle my steering wheel, laugh and hang up. Luckily for the recipient of my anger, I'm picking up Bruiser and an hour delay to go beat someone's ass would have been difficult to explain. He jumps in, and apparently, my rage hasn't entirely subsided because I'm still gripping the steering wheel so hard I might actually yank it off and I'm driving fast enough for him to call me "Nascar." As I'm in the hallway fiddling with my keys in the lock and having my top unbuttoned I think, "I know a good way to work off some aggression."
I'll spare you all the details, but it was an even better idea than the fitness room. What Lola wants, Lola gets. I woke up with fewer bruises though. I think I'll wait until they fade to atempt a round 3. It's like the little blue bristles on your toothbrush. When they turn white, it's time to get a new one.
Id wants a pretzel and a slurpee at Target. I give in, even though I just did a blow-out grocery shop. It was every bit as good as I could have wanted. Id is pleased.
Finn has given up on the remote and is tying a tie over his pajamas.
I've been informed that I'm some sort of soul-sucking, lying, drama-manufacturing succubus. Shame. I guess you can't please everybody. I accidentally hit my bruised arm against the end table. Hm. Maybe I am some sort of succubus. I don't hear anyone complaining. Most often, I hear Nikki laughing on the other end of the phone.
Phone call: It's Nikki. She called to tell me that she's intoxicated. I'm waiting for V to pick me up for the downtown festivals. I'm about to tell her that I'm going to keep her hubby out of trouble for her while she's away, when she gets distracted and ends the call.
Downtown, I see my old roomate from the Hash Palace. The one with the demon cat. I pretend not to see him. I then get one of my all-time favorite voicemails:
"Lo, it's Nikki. Why you no pick up my call? Is it because you didn't want to tell me where you were going?" And then she giggles, tells me to be safe and hangs up.
Id wants beer and Mexican food. As I finish my taco, I realize that Id has some amazing ideas and vow to indulge it a little bit more.
Well, it's time for me to guilt myself into doing my work. So, I bid you adieu (except the ones I'll see tonight) and to my new readers: stay tuned.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Jailhouse Rock
This week did not start well. Computie is dying. The slow painful way. Which was really inconvenient when I needed Computie to do me a solid and help me through the slow, painful process of applying for clerkships. Instead, I battled with Adobe for hours when I should have been adding PDFs of my writing sample to my bazillion clerkships. I got this close to pitching the damn thing across a coffee shop. Unfortunately, I had most of my overpriced Kahlua and Cream latte to drink and a hundred and some odd applications to upload, so that satisfying option came to nothing.
I woke up Monday, with my back and neck completely fucked. What was Lola doing Sunday night you ask? Sleeping in her own bed. The two friends who slept on my couches? Slept perfectly, woke up raving about my comfy couches. I call shenanigans. So, I was already fairly cranky when Computie started rebelling. I was up until after 2 and then awakened by my neighbors moving shadily out of their apartment at 6 a.m. At first I thought they were burglars, and then decided that Finn was bigger and stronger and closer to the living room, so I tried to sleep. And then realized that someone was getting the hell out of Dodge. Sweet.
With no apparent cause for this neck/back evil, I have been informed that it's probably stress. Well, that makes sense. I'm like 9 months from graduation and job prospects are lookin' bleak, and all the men I know have their own kind of special weird and crazy.
Every time I think about this shit, my neck seizes up more. No fucking wonder. Law school does not lend itself to happiness. We're all dead tired, overworked, stressed, malnourished, and fighting the first battles of the war against alcoholism and substance abuse.
Sitting uncomfortably in the Law Review Office with the Kid, who has apologized to both Dan and Aaron for his behavior in the Attack of the 2Ls, but not to me, who he groped. Phone call, it's Rick. "The internet isn't working. What do I do?"
"With my Spidey senses, I see that the modem needs to be reconfigured?" How the hell should I know? My fix for everything is to restart my computer.
Sancho Panza swears there were "no signs at all" in the building where he fell. Cut to Lola, watching him walk past a sign in the surveillance video. "Oh, you mean in the main part of the building? Oh yeah, but that's not what I meant. I meant the other part of the building." And the only sentence he can repeat is, "yeah, he said 'that stupid "B," she just mopped the floor." If hear the phrase "that stupid 'B'" one more time, I am going to suck on the exposed wires from where they're renovating the elevators.
Phone call. Collect from city jail. Neck Crack has landed himself in the big house. I grin. Things are lookin' up.
I woke up Monday, with my back and neck completely fucked. What was Lola doing Sunday night you ask? Sleeping in her own bed. The two friends who slept on my couches? Slept perfectly, woke up raving about my comfy couches. I call shenanigans. So, I was already fairly cranky when Computie started rebelling. I was up until after 2 and then awakened by my neighbors moving shadily out of their apartment at 6 a.m. At first I thought they were burglars, and then decided that Finn was bigger and stronger and closer to the living room, so I tried to sleep. And then realized that someone was getting the hell out of Dodge. Sweet.
With no apparent cause for this neck/back evil, I have been informed that it's probably stress. Well, that makes sense. I'm like 9 months from graduation and job prospects are lookin' bleak, and all the men I know have their own kind of special weird and crazy.
Every time I think about this shit, my neck seizes up more. No fucking wonder. Law school does not lend itself to happiness. We're all dead tired, overworked, stressed, malnourished, and fighting the first battles of the war against alcoholism and substance abuse.
Sitting uncomfortably in the Law Review Office with the Kid, who has apologized to both Dan and Aaron for his behavior in the Attack of the 2Ls, but not to me, who he groped. Phone call, it's Rick. "The internet isn't working. What do I do?"
"With my Spidey senses, I see that the modem needs to be reconfigured?" How the hell should I know? My fix for everything is to restart my computer.
Sancho Panza swears there were "no signs at all" in the building where he fell. Cut to Lola, watching him walk past a sign in the surveillance video. "Oh, you mean in the main part of the building? Oh yeah, but that's not what I meant. I meant the other part of the building." And the only sentence he can repeat is, "yeah, he said 'that stupid "B," she just mopped the floor." If hear the phrase "that stupid 'B'" one more time, I am going to suck on the exposed wires from where they're renovating the elevators.
Phone call. Collect from city jail. Neck Crack has landed himself in the big house. I grin. Things are lookin' up.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Fatal Attraction
Your days of reading The Penal Gallery may be numbered dear readers (I know you're both devastated), because my days may be numbered. Finn's batshit crazy ex-girlfriend, Crazy, is coming to visit this weekend. This means two things: 1) there are people crazier than me and 2) they are coming to visit. Presumably to see the kittens, sleep with Finn, and kill me. Probably in that order. Expect to hear from me barricaded in my room Sunday night with my dresser pushed in front of my door. (Anyone want to take me out of the house on Sunday night? Anyone? Bueller?)
On a related note, don't drink and text. You ever get drunk and forget? It happened to me. I returned home from the bar(s) on Wednesday night (don't judge me) and got drunk with Finn while we discussed my imminent demise and my apparent inability to give it away. (For the record, he is amazed and saddened by my inability to close the deal. In my defense, I've been thwarted by circumstances outside my control). I sent a cryptic text message regarding my imminent demise. I never even got a "you're nuts" message back. You would think I'd learn, but if you thought that, you probably haven't been reading all that long.
For those who doubt that God likes to mess with me, reference the hour I spent lined up with 3 out of the last 5 men I've hooked up with at a school event. It was not a fair, it was a parade of all my drunken escapades. My friends laughed at me and none of them knew why. Thanks, God.
I'm rambling, which is a good way to avoid the things I should be doing. I should be finishing a memo on adverse possession. Lame. I should be redacting my writing sample so I can get a job. Tedious. I should be applying for jobs. Scary. I should be reading for class. Boring.
I have three binders worth of cite-checking assignments on the desk right now. I am staring them down, hoping that they will compile themselves if I look at them the right way. I somehow doubt this is going to happen. This post has not had the requisite amount of snark; so, I'm going to make up for that by complaining right now:
I wanted to be as clear as possible and give as much direction as I could to the incoming staff members who were anxious as a whore in church about their assignments. We had the managing department send out a spiffy checklist detailing exactly what they were to do, we held cite-checking class, I sent the world's longest, most detailed email about the particulars of the assignment and several members of the e-board donated a block of three hours to answer questions at a help session. Of course, most of the staff was freaking out anyway, like we were going to torture those who forgot to put BlueBook rules in the margins. Except for one person, who apparently knows how everything should be run anyway. I'm not sure that she knows that I was the one giving out the assignment, or maybe she thinks little things like tact are beneath her because she complains, in the office, in front of me, in this nasty condescending tone: "Yeah, this entire assignment was an exercise in confusion." Like we didn't know what we were doing and fucked up the instructional process. I'm sorry, maybe your uppity ass could have come to the three hours' worth of help time where someone could have shown you exactly what to do. Or, you could have emailed for clarification instead of taking no iniative to figure out what you were doing and then bitching that you didn't have somone holding your hand.
I kinda hope she fucks it up so badly that I have to email her and ask her why she didn't come in for help since she clearly had no idea what to do.
On a related note, don't drink and text. You ever get drunk and forget? It happened to me. I returned home from the bar(s) on Wednesday night (don't judge me) and got drunk with Finn while we discussed my imminent demise and my apparent inability to give it away. (For the record, he is amazed and saddened by my inability to close the deal. In my defense, I've been thwarted by circumstances outside my control). I sent a cryptic text message regarding my imminent demise. I never even got a "you're nuts" message back. You would think I'd learn, but if you thought that, you probably haven't been reading all that long.
For those who doubt that God likes to mess with me, reference the hour I spent lined up with 3 out of the last 5 men I've hooked up with at a school event. It was not a fair, it was a parade of all my drunken escapades. My friends laughed at me and none of them knew why. Thanks, God.
I'm rambling, which is a good way to avoid the things I should be doing. I should be finishing a memo on adverse possession. Lame. I should be redacting my writing sample so I can get a job. Tedious. I should be applying for jobs. Scary. I should be reading for class. Boring.
I have three binders worth of cite-checking assignments on the desk right now. I am staring them down, hoping that they will compile themselves if I look at them the right way. I somehow doubt this is going to happen. This post has not had the requisite amount of snark; so, I'm going to make up for that by complaining right now:
I wanted to be as clear as possible and give as much direction as I could to the incoming staff members who were anxious as a whore in church about their assignments. We had the managing department send out a spiffy checklist detailing exactly what they were to do, we held cite-checking class, I sent the world's longest, most detailed email about the particulars of the assignment and several members of the e-board donated a block of three hours to answer questions at a help session. Of course, most of the staff was freaking out anyway, like we were going to torture those who forgot to put BlueBook rules in the margins. Except for one person, who apparently knows how everything should be run anyway. I'm not sure that she knows that I was the one giving out the assignment, or maybe she thinks little things like tact are beneath her because she complains, in the office, in front of me, in this nasty condescending tone: "Yeah, this entire assignment was an exercise in confusion." Like we didn't know what we were doing and fucked up the instructional process. I'm sorry, maybe your uppity ass could have come to the three hours' worth of help time where someone could have shown you exactly what to do. Or, you could have emailed for clarification instead of taking no iniative to figure out what you were doing and then bitching that you didn't have somone holding your hand.
I kinda hope she fucks it up so badly that I have to email her and ask her why she didn't come in for help since she clearly had no idea what to do.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Law and Disorder, Season 3, episode 1: Attack of the 2Ls
Nikki always says I need a reality show. And she already has the name picked out: Law and Disorder. Given my talent for getting into stupid situations and making poor decisions, I think that it might be as compelling as say, Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. And there would be no STDs.
Finn is out of town this weekend, which means that I had to come up with lots of trouble to get into so I could regale him when he gets back tonight. With our kitty! (I'm getting a black cat. I'm well aware of the comic value. I'm sure there's a joke there, but I'm too lazy to make it).
Last weekend of "freedom" before school starts, and last year begins. The theme of the weekend is that the 2Ls are insane and I might be turning into some sort of sociopath. Thursday was bar night, which was an amazing success, before some self-righteous 2L got his panties in a twist about the fact that I have not, in fact, put on a hair shirt and thrown myself on a funeral pyre in mourning for the artist-formerly-known-as-Priest. Um? Excuse me? He's not dead, he dumped me. Apparently, me dancing at a bar is a problem. I guess we're in the little town from Footloose now? Luckily, I didn't hear the original tirade, because I was in a towering fury as it was and might have planted my five-inch-heel up his tight little ass. As it was, I found myself revealing some vaguely sociopathic tendencies.
I was the D.D. and so, I only had 2 and a half drinks, and an asthma attack later that night. Fun! I blame the meddlesome 2L. Ironically, I also had a raging hangover. I felt the way I did after Nikki's wedding, and I barely had anything to drink. Unfair. Finn awoke to me holding onto the toilet for dear life at 7:30 in the morning. I then had to go to orientation for the new staff members, terrified that I would have to vom again and none of them would respect me after that. I did not vom. Win!
After Day 2 of orientation, we had a social event and the 2Ls struck again. Everything was lovely at the actual social event, and then a group of us went across the street to another bar. The 2Ls did not join us. This made us sad, that the 2Ls are all sedate and married and don't want to hang out with us. This changed when a group of them came in. Mostly, they were cool, and one of them decided to be interesting and drunk enough for all of them. He greets Dan, our SENIOR NOTES EDITOR, and thus, this kid's BOSS who's in charge of minor things, like, the paper the kid has to write for Law Review credit, by shouting "You crazy motherfucker!" Which I thought was bold for someone he had only known for a day. And then he decides to switch up his term of endearment to "you son of a bitch!" Luckily for him, Dan thinks this is mildly amusing, though stupid. But this kid didn't know that. What if Dan had no sense of humor?
I guess we're partially to blame for what happened next. Dan and I decide the kid should be messed with. Kid asks me to dance. And we all get up to dance, everything is fine. I give him some shit about the dangers of drinking and swearing at E-board members. Kid gets...decidedly friendly. I was on some sort of kinder, gentler Lola kick and decide that starting drama by full-on bitch-slapping a staff member would not be a good start to the year and Megan would be made at me. Besides, he was drinking. I decide to take the calm way around this. "Um, you're being very forward for a 2L." The hint is not taken. "Yes, I am. I go after what I want." I try again. "So, you know I'm not going to give you breaks on your assignments or anything right?" No joy. "That's not what I'm after. You're what I'm after." Or something to that effect. If not for the fact that this kid is now backing me against the bar rail, I would almost admire his nerve. He's just met me and...he has to report to me on his cite-checking assignment and he's trying to get his groove thing on. He breaks out some cheesy-line about......oh, who the fuck knows and I announce that I want my beer so I break away and he yells after me to promise to come back. Which is when I run into Dan, who informs me that when the Kid started to back into the wall, he almost came over to intervene before things got "out of hand." Chivalrous. Instead, he thought, "Nah. It's Lola, she can handle herself." And, apparently, he thought it might be kinda funny to see what I would do to the Kid. Thanks, pal. I give him the details of my conversation with the Kid, at which point, Dan starts laughing like a hyena. And, then, he and Aaron get randomly pissed about the way this Kid disrespected my authority and was such a skeeze and blatantly came on to an editor on his first day on staff. Though, it must be admitted that Dan occassionally laughed like a hyena. The word "inappropriate" was tossed about drunkenly, which, in hindsight is kinda funny.
I shook the Kid and left the bar (I took a cab, thanks Elisa for the tip-off! Even though there was no way I could have driven, cops or no cops) and did the second vaguely sociopathic thing I'd done in as many days. Except for this vaguely sociopathic thing was nearly as bad as the first and again, not my idea. It's not that what I've been doing is necessarily so bad, it's just the absolute lack of remorse I have about any of the moral implications of my actions that's a little weird. I also have stopped caring about consequences. I'm not exactly sure what's behind it, because I do normally have a limit, but I think that my general apathy about my personal life could go a long way towards explaining it.
The moral of the story: be careful what you wish for, because 2Ls might just show up to give it to you.
Finn is out of town this weekend, which means that I had to come up with lots of trouble to get into so I could regale him when he gets back tonight. With our kitty! (I'm getting a black cat. I'm well aware of the comic value. I'm sure there's a joke there, but I'm too lazy to make it).
Last weekend of "freedom" before school starts, and last year begins. The theme of the weekend is that the 2Ls are insane and I might be turning into some sort of sociopath. Thursday was bar night, which was an amazing success, before some self-righteous 2L got his panties in a twist about the fact that I have not, in fact, put on a hair shirt and thrown myself on a funeral pyre in mourning for the artist-formerly-known-as-Priest. Um? Excuse me? He's not dead, he dumped me. Apparently, me dancing at a bar is a problem. I guess we're in the little town from Footloose now? Luckily, I didn't hear the original tirade, because I was in a towering fury as it was and might have planted my five-inch-heel up his tight little ass. As it was, I found myself revealing some vaguely sociopathic tendencies.
I was the D.D. and so, I only had 2 and a half drinks, and an asthma attack later that night. Fun! I blame the meddlesome 2L. Ironically, I also had a raging hangover. I felt the way I did after Nikki's wedding, and I barely had anything to drink. Unfair. Finn awoke to me holding onto the toilet for dear life at 7:30 in the morning. I then had to go to orientation for the new staff members, terrified that I would have to vom again and none of them would respect me after that. I did not vom. Win!
After Day 2 of orientation, we had a social event and the 2Ls struck again. Everything was lovely at the actual social event, and then a group of us went across the street to another bar. The 2Ls did not join us. This made us sad, that the 2Ls are all sedate and married and don't want to hang out with us. This changed when a group of them came in. Mostly, they were cool, and one of them decided to be interesting and drunk enough for all of them. He greets Dan, our SENIOR NOTES EDITOR, and thus, this kid's BOSS who's in charge of minor things, like, the paper the kid has to write for Law Review credit, by shouting "You crazy motherfucker!" Which I thought was bold for someone he had only known for a day. And then he decides to switch up his term of endearment to "you son of a bitch!" Luckily for him, Dan thinks this is mildly amusing, though stupid. But this kid didn't know that. What if Dan had no sense of humor?
I guess we're partially to blame for what happened next. Dan and I decide the kid should be messed with. Kid asks me to dance. And we all get up to dance, everything is fine. I give him some shit about the dangers of drinking and swearing at E-board members. Kid gets...decidedly friendly. I was on some sort of kinder, gentler Lola kick and decide that starting drama by full-on bitch-slapping a staff member would not be a good start to the year and Megan would be made at me. Besides, he was drinking. I decide to take the calm way around this. "Um, you're being very forward for a 2L." The hint is not taken. "Yes, I am. I go after what I want." I try again. "So, you know I'm not going to give you breaks on your assignments or anything right?" No joy. "That's not what I'm after. You're what I'm after." Or something to that effect. If not for the fact that this kid is now backing me against the bar rail, I would almost admire his nerve. He's just met me and...he has to report to me on his cite-checking assignment and he's trying to get his groove thing on. He breaks out some cheesy-line about......oh, who the fuck knows and I announce that I want my beer so I break away and he yells after me to promise to come back. Which is when I run into Dan, who informs me that when the Kid started to back into the wall, he almost came over to intervene before things got "out of hand." Chivalrous. Instead, he thought, "Nah. It's Lola, she can handle herself." And, apparently, he thought it might be kinda funny to see what I would do to the Kid. Thanks, pal. I give him the details of my conversation with the Kid, at which point, Dan starts laughing like a hyena. And, then, he and Aaron get randomly pissed about the way this Kid disrespected my authority and was such a skeeze and blatantly came on to an editor on his first day on staff. Though, it must be admitted that Dan occassionally laughed like a hyena. The word "inappropriate" was tossed about drunkenly, which, in hindsight is kinda funny.
I shook the Kid and left the bar (I took a cab, thanks Elisa for the tip-off! Even though there was no way I could have driven, cops or no cops) and did the second vaguely sociopathic thing I'd done in as many days. Except for this vaguely sociopathic thing was nearly as bad as the first and again, not my idea. It's not that what I've been doing is necessarily so bad, it's just the absolute lack of remorse I have about any of the moral implications of my actions that's a little weird. I also have stopped caring about consequences. I'm not exactly sure what's behind it, because I do normally have a limit, but I think that my general apathy about my personal life could go a long way towards explaining it.
The moral of the story: be careful what you wish for, because 2Ls might just show up to give it to you.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Say Hello to Your Friends
People are piling back into the pit. School starts on Monday. Which means this week is a strange combination of frantically trying to get ready for the semester while drinking on weeeknights in a desperate attempt to pretend we still have a summer and social lives.
Nikki's first day back to work (after a booze-fueled reunion on the patio and at Casa Lola) was yesterday. We spent the day gossiping, occassionally working and enjoying the amazingness that Kati introduced us to: Whatclaudiawore. An amazing journey through the fashion of The Babysitters Club through snarkiness. This prompted us to begin singing the Babysitters Club theme song (say hello to your friends Babysitters Club! Say hello to the people who care...) We also reminisced about Sweet Valley High. Which apparently is being turned into a musical. Also, how many times did we need to hear about their "perfect size six" figures? As if teenage girls don't have enough image problems. And as if women in their twenties didn't either, they are re-releasing the books, with the twins' size reduced to a four. Because six is way fat. Also, Elizabeth is blogging? WTF Francine Pascal? Are you stealing my life? God! Because that thing where the psycho-girl who looked exactly like me moved into town and tried to kill me or my twin to replace me and then her identical twin shows up for round 2 a year later totes happened. Only she clearly succeeded because as we all know, there is currently only one Lola... What happened to the two psycho look-alikes? Never you mind....
Damn I wish I had more summer vacation so I could reread the whole Elizabeth-commits-manslaughter-except-she-didn't-cause-she's-perfect-and-has-a-perfect-size-six-figure-don't-forget storyline. But I have to get back to the grind, which means a mock interview. Mock interviews have all of the stress of trying to come up with good questions and get dressed without ripping a hole in your stockings without any of the possible payoff. Even when I make a good-faith effort to prepare for my fake interview I am thwarted. Most recently by MartindaleHubbell, which now needs maintenance.
Dear MartindaleHubbell, You promised to be done with your website maintenance at 10:00 EST. It is now 11:30 and you're not done yet. Fail. Get up and running so I can can properly stalk my mock interviewer and get back to important shit. Like whatclaudiawore and Wii Fit.
Love,
Lola
Nikki's first day back to work (after a booze-fueled reunion on the patio and at Casa Lola) was yesterday. We spent the day gossiping, occassionally working and enjoying the amazingness that Kati introduced us to: Whatclaudiawore. An amazing journey through the fashion of The Babysitters Club through snarkiness. This prompted us to begin singing the Babysitters Club theme song (say hello to your friends Babysitters Club! Say hello to the people who care...) We also reminisced about Sweet Valley High. Which apparently is being turned into a musical. Also, how many times did we need to hear about their "perfect size six" figures? As if teenage girls don't have enough image problems. And as if women in their twenties didn't either, they are re-releasing the books, with the twins' size reduced to a four. Because six is way fat. Also, Elizabeth is blogging? WTF Francine Pascal? Are you stealing my life? God! Because that thing where the psycho-girl who looked exactly like me moved into town and tried to kill me or my twin to replace me and then her identical twin shows up for round 2 a year later totes happened. Only she clearly succeeded because as we all know, there is currently only one Lola... What happened to the two psycho look-alikes? Never you mind....
Damn I wish I had more summer vacation so I could reread the whole Elizabeth-commits-manslaughter-except-she-didn't-cause-she's-perfect-and-has-a-perfect-size-six-figure-don't-forget storyline. But I have to get back to the grind, which means a mock interview. Mock interviews have all of the stress of trying to come up with good questions and get dressed without ripping a hole in your stockings without any of the possible payoff. Even when I make a good-faith effort to prepare for my fake interview I am thwarted. Most recently by MartindaleHubbell, which now needs maintenance.
Dear MartindaleHubbell, You promised to be done with your website maintenance at 10:00 EST. It is now 11:30 and you're not done yet. Fail. Get up and running so I can can properly stalk my mock interviewer and get back to important shit. Like whatclaudiawore and Wii Fit.
Love,
Lola
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