Common Law: The Fatal Disease Common to all 3Ls

I have been staring at my utter travesty of a final paper for just over a week now. I have added about a paragraph. And some snappy subsection titles.

E calculated what I needed to get on my finals to preserve my graduation honors for my final transcript. Considering I only have 4 graded credits this semester, my performance need not be stellar. Just how much I can phone it in, she elected not to tell me. For which I am exceedingly grateful, and give her, as a token of my appreciation, this handsome shout-out.

3L-itis has settled in. Full force. I need to turn in a good 25-pager to Kapes, lest I ruin my perfect record of only being awarded As by her. My grade neurosis, when combined with the utter lack of motivation that accompanies 3L-itis, is a dangerous combination. I obssess about wanting to do well, but cannot do anything proactive about it. I can feel the all-nighter coming tonight.

My senior year of college, this would have been no problem. The Circa 2006 incarnation of Lola once wrote a 25 page comprehensive exam in one night, with a broken arm, after a trip to the emergency room. 22-year-old Lola was awesome. (Mutebutton typed it for me. Once upon a time, Mutebutton was also awesome). I'm a little less certain about my chances now. Technically, I only need to write 16 pages tonight. And then I get time to edit it. But, still, there's no all-night cafe I can drink muddy coffee and chain-smoke at.

Z: Can't you just crank out a piece of shit?
Lola: Believe me, I'm in the process of doing just that.

I took my last in-class final last Thursday. With the most aggressive proctor ever ("Write your phone numbers on the check-out sheet, YOU LITTLE SHITS!"Ok, he didn't actually say that, but E and I swear he stopped just shy of saying "fucking phone numbers").

All that's standing between me and graduation is a take-home final that I'm taking pass/fail and this paper. This should be inspiring, but I still can't get it up.

The other contributing factor to my utter lack of healthy fear?

Ready for this?

I got a JOB! A real-life, big-kid, includes benefits, job. As Finn said, "I guess this is God extending the olive branch." (The day before I got the job saw me at the health center, sick as hell, getting my car towed. We're not exaggerating God's "playful ribbing" of me)

Look out, Big City, Hurricane Lola is set to make landfall this summer.

Assuming I finish that stupid paper.

Up in the Air

What I'm about to say will probably shock most of you: I am allowed to leave the state. At least, I'm pretty sure I am. And to shock all of you: I actually care about my career and professional opportunities. These two things only become relevant when a special event occurs, an event both eagerly anticipated and deeply loathed by law students: the out-of-state job fair. I say "eagerly anticipated" because there are employers, captive, all in one place, who are actually hiring. When this job fair is by invite-only (say what you want about my moral failings, but I'm actually not failing out of law school), it seems like the Holy Grail: they want to talk specifically to you! Why the deep loathing you ask? Unlike some career opportunities, this one does not come with a gratis flight at stay at a swanky hotel. This one, you foot the bill for.

Oh, sure. I'm absolutely not considering commandeering a walk-in pantry's worth of Finn's empties to buy groceries. I'll just take a week off work and a vacay to boot. I'm debating which kidney to sell to finance this trip, when the Gods (finally) smile upon me. I mention this excursion, and Jabba offers to pick up the tab. Like, without of my sneaky machinations. My face. It is surprised-looking.

The trip down went well enough, until I landed in Baltimore. A word about airports: there's not a lot of middle ground. Some cities, apparently averse to new traffic, like, maybe BALTIMORE, use their airport to convince you that you don't want to stay a moment past the time your flight connects. On the other hand, some cities really try to out-do themselves on the airport front. Take for example, Detroit, Michigan. If you're only hanging out in the Detroit airport, you'd think that Detroit is a truly delightful place, full of culture, and bars and shopping; the kind of place you'd like to be. London Heathrow, or at least the Heathrow of my memory, is another such place. I'm also pretty partial to Chicago Midway. Except, Chicago really is the kind of place I want to be. My point is, Baltimore is not trying to impress me, with its airport or its weather. It's pissing rain and the shuttle service doesn't have my reservation. Neither does Orbitz. I politely (or as polite as one can be through gritted teeth) inquire as to how the reservation is in Orbitz's system for the purpose of charging my credit card and sending me a confirmation, but not for the purposes of my trip voucher. A few minutes later, my travel voucher is in my hot little hands.

Grateful to be in D.C. at last, I hop out of the shuttle and stroll up to check-in, having double-checked my reservation after the shuttle debacle. "I'm sorry, Ms. Lawless, we don't seem to have a room for you." I stare blankly, not even really surprised. Undeterred, I present a confirmation number with the smug assurance of one who fails to learn her lessons about how badly a travel site can really fuck up your stay. Yeah, my reservation is for the hotel's other (identically named, might I add) property across town. My shuttle is gone, and so is my patience.

Now, here's where I have to plug the Renaissance Hotel on M street. If you ever find yourself in the D.C. area and are looking for quality accommodations, I highly recommend it. While it's true that the accommodations themselves are pretty par for the course for an urban, upscale hotel (trendy décor, bar, restaurant, dry cleaning service, large glass stall showers) it was the customer service that really set this place apart: I asked for directions to the nearest copy shop and instead, the awesome duo of Patrick and Noel (names have not been changed to brag about the fabulous) hunted up some nice paper, printed my resume for me, and brought it to my room; I came in one day looking tired and they changed the access code on my key to let me into the "concierge lounge" where I could recline on comfy chairs and eat their free food.

Because I had job-hunting to do, I actually behaved myself on this trip and, aside from walking for an eternity through the hood in my suit and 3-inch heels over uneven brick pavers, nothing really noteworthy happened: I saw some friends from law school and attended my interviews like a good person. Everything ran smoothly until it was time to leave.

The SuperShuttle was back for Round 2. And this time, it was out for blood. I said nothing about it being 20 minutes late (and by nothing, I mean I called the service twice to make sure they hadn't gone to the side entrance of the hotel). About 15 minutes after I got into the cab, I realized I had to pee. But, it's not a long ride into Baltimore, so I figured being a grown-up person, I could handle another 35 minutes.

Yeah, about that 35 minutes? Try over TWO HOURS. Marley, our crazed Caribbean driver, managed to take the most bass-ackwards trip around D.C. ever. And maneuvered us through traffic in a manner I usually associate with a game of Frogger. I arrived at Baltimore airport 30 minutes before my flight was to leave and I was informed that I would have to gate-check my bag by the electronic kiosk. I did not think much of this, and went to the ticket counter. Now, I had been nervous about flying U.S. Airways since an ill-fated trip that Boss (not to be confused with Chief, who I actually saw while in D.C.), #2, the Kid, and NewB took a couple of weeks ago which involved delayed flights, lost luggage, and tears. I was not disappointed. I was informed that neither I nor my bag would be boarding the flight. And that there were no other flights to my final destination that night. Srsly? Fuck you, U.S. Airways. Fuck you. I still hadn't peed. Things were reaching critical mass. I manage to jump a flight through Charlotte and ran like hell to get to a bathroom.

All I wanted at that point was delicious, delicious vodka. Luckily, I met a cute soldier who directed me to the nearest bar. Unluckily, the bar was packed, so I had to settle for coffee gelato instead. I was so excited to find gelato at the airport. And then I paid 3 bucks for it. And I got this:

(I took a picture next to a box of cigarettes to give an idea of size.) So, I settled for eating my comically small gelato and chatting up the cute soldier. We bonded over I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

When I landed in Charlotte, my hopes were not high. I saw not one, but two stock-car themed bars in the B concourse alone. But it was ok, there was the "Taste of Charlotte" bar. Apparently, Charlotte tastes like a double Goose and tonic. I waved good-bye to cute soldier and I was on my way. And no, we did not fly friendly in the skies. It seems to me that I should have, it would have been the patriotic thing to do. The sad thing is, I didn't even think about mile-highing it until I'd we'd already landed. What is going on here? Maybe my soul is growing back.

Ew.

Telephone

Phone call: Mrs. Sancho Panza. "Hey, Sancho needs to go to his independent medical examination today. Do you know where the doctor's office is?"

I sent them a letter with the date and time of the appointment. Not to mention the address of the doctor's office. "Um, did you not get the letter we sent? I apologize. It should have been in the letter we sent you last week to remind him."

"Oh, no we got the letter. But I don't know where the office is. Do you know where it is?"

Oh, so suddenly I'm Google Maps. I get it, not only does Sancho think Mrs. Sancho is his personal assistant, but, he is also under the impression that I go to work every day just waiting for him to call so I do little chores for him. I don't know where they live, so I'm not sure how I'm supposed to give directions from their house to another place I've never been to, but, I don't see that I have any choice but to try. Thankful that she can't see me, I roll my eyes and resolve to start sending maps along with all similar reminder letters. I pull up Google Maps on our Apple II (not really, but work-computer is slow as shit) and punch in the office address.

That's when line 2 starts ringing. "Uh, Mrs. Sancho? Can you please hold?" But, she's screaming at one of the eight million grandchildren, and I can't get her attention. So, I switch over.

"Rick's Cafe Legalese, this is Lola, can you please hold?"

"Hi, Lola, it's Rick."

"Hi Rick, I have a client on the other line, can you please hold?"

"Oh, sure, I was just calling to tell you..." and he proceeds to tell me what he called to tell me, ignoring my interjections that I need to get back to the other line. Like Mama Lo, every time I ask her to hold on, she tells me what she's planning on telling me anyway. It pretty much just means that he's going to tell me his plans for the day annd a few things that happened yesterday. I finally switch back over. And, despite my efforts to get Mrs. Sancho's attention, all I can hear is their t.v. and a maurading grandchild. The line goes dead.

Phone: 2, Lola: 0. I have to call her back and give her the directions.

Phone call: Rick. "Please call Camille and have her come in, they've offered a settlement.

Camille is a bit of a running joke. Every time we call her, she sounds like she's about to die. Unless there's been a settlement offer, then she perks right back up. But if she needs to sign something or drop it off, we get an Oscar-worthy performance of coughing, moaning, and "Oh, I just feel terrible. Smirking, I pick up the phone.

Camille: (perky) Hi! This is Camille!
Lola: Hi Camille, it's Lola, from Rick's Cafe...
Camille: (coughing and barely audible) Ohhhhhhhh, hellloooo
Lola: We just needed you to come in. They've sent in a final settlement offer, can you come in and sign off on it?
Camille: (suddenly perky again) Oh, sure! I'll be right in!!!

Phone call: (breather call) (Repeat) (Lots of times)
Lola: Why do I get breather calls at the office?

Phone call: Rick answers. "Rick's Cafe, this is Rick."
Caller: "Hello, this is Mr. Smithers. Please hold for Sancho Panza, I have him on the line."
Rick: (is stunned).

Rick (to Lola): It's like I just got a call from the White House. Except it wasn't the President. It was Sancho. He's actually having people make his phone calls for him before he'll come to the phone.

Lola: Don't expect me to start doing that.

I think the Phone wins this round.

A Fine Whine

I will preface this rant with a disclaimer: I'm a huge Law Review nerd. Many of my closest friends and most respected colleagues are members of the Law Review, and I'm generally a big, nerdy cheerleader for the journal and its members.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way. . .

The membership of the Law Review is supposed to be the "cream of the crop" of a law school and so, one would assume that people on the Law Review, being the "brightest and the best," would be able to read. And follow very simple, explicit instructions.

Huge misconception.

I know I'm anal-retentive. But I generally expect that people can follow instructions such as which footnotes they are assigned (it's a range of numbers, seriously) and what material needs to be turned in to accompany sources such as....law review articles (which are not uncommonly used sources).

What makes me even more annoyed is the fact that I repeatedly refer people to a hard-copy example that they can hold in their hot little hands to take a look at what I mean. And, I'm not immune to making mistakes. It happens. To me. With alarming frequency. It's when I specifically request a change, several times, and find that my words go in one ear and out the other that I get a little testy.

Of course, some would argue that I'm always a little testy. To use the more common phrase, I'm an "emotionally unstable bitch." (Thanks, gents. For the record, people at this school talk, a lot. Many of them to me.)

For what it's worth, I prefer "tempestuous."

All Aboard the Failboat

The last time D and I went on a road trip was about 8 or 9 years ago when we went to an amusement park for labor day and accidentally walked into the men's room.

Our fortunes have not improved much.

Trip to Chicago, to take the aptitude test for the government fellowship I've applied to. Why not make this into a sister-roadtrip? It's only a few hours to Chicago! What could go wrong?

First, we delayed in setting out by....oh, about 4 hours. No bigs. We drive about a half an hour until we need gas and I need to fix my contact. Which I have somehow turned inside out.

D pays for the gas while I tend to my eye. I come out and the following exchange takes place:

D: Shit. I forgot my ID at home.

Lola: You want to go back for it? We're only 20 minutes away.

D: No, I'll just pre-drink and not drink at the bars.

Lola: You won't be able to get into the bars.

D: Shit. Oh well.

Lola: We ready?

D: Yeah, we're ready.

We drive another 15 minutes when D looks at the gas gauge and says "Oh, you didn't fill the tank?" Um. THAT's what I meant when I asked "are we ready?"

30 minutes into our trip and the fail count is already at 3.

Mama Lo was nice enough to drive D's license to the gas station. And they gave us the gas we paid for. And we were on our way.

Our trip was full of delights. We learned that Indiana is "The Cross-Roads of America." This amused me and offended D. "You can't just call yourself 'The Cross-Roads of America!' You need something to back it up!" (Sidebar: There is a reason for the snappy state nickname. It makes sense, but it's not terribly exciting.) We also discovered Chicago's own 100.3 (Nickname: We couldn't decide on a format) which played damn near everything. We heard: The Human League, Whitesnake, Gwen Stefani, Elton John (get the picture?) But not, as I demanded, 99 Red Balloons.

Things went well (a supply problem at the restroom of the local Chili's notwithstanding) until we got off the highway. GoogleMaps took us under our hotel, not to it, which led to the scenic tour of Chicago. We asked the desk staff at several hotels (including the one from "Sin in the Second City") and finally arrived. An hour after getting off the highway. Fail count stands at 4. We missed dinner with Amie. Fail count=5.

I'd like to tell you that the test (you know, the reason I went on this little jaunt) went off without a hitch. But, that would mean no one's been paying attention. I hailed a cab to ensure that I wouldn't be cutting it close and wandering aimlessly from the EL stop to campus. This way, I'd get dropped at the student center, early, and not breathless and sweaty.

About that.

It's a good thing we got there early. Because cab driver dropped me off smack dab in the middle of Loyola's campus. With no idea of where I was going, I decided to walk purposefully towards a building. It was not the correct building. So, I figure "Loyola students are smart. I'll ask directions." Bad plan. They all gave me vague directions to walk "that way." Toward the lake. Presumably, I'll know I've gone far enough when I fall in. Finally, I see a sign that says "Sullivan Center."

I walk in, and approach two studious-looking women. "Is this the Sullivan Center?" I ask.

"Yeah!" One of the two replies. "Great!" I say and head towards the elevator, because the test is on the second floor.

"Oh, wait!" She calls back, "This isn't the Sullivan Center!"

Seriously? You don't know what building you're fucking SITTING in? I'm starting to seriously doubt the admissions requirements for Loyola.

Bottom line: I end up sprinting along the lake shore to the Sullivan Center and arriving, out of breath with my sweater plastered to my back. Great. (It's all good, though, as of the time of this posting, it appears that I still had my shit together enough to take the test, I'm currently a finalist for said fellowship).

D calls me on my way back. Begging me to stop at a store and buy some vodka so she can pregame. Sure, D. You sat in a hotel room all day while I took the scenic tour of a college campus and sat a test for three hours. She "can't find" a liquor store. I find one. ACROSS THE STREET from our hotel. Fail, D. I refuse to buy the paint-thinner she drinks and opt for my favorite mid-grade. We finally had dinner with Amie. D played taxi-cab confessional with both of our cab drivers. One of them understood the concept. The other, decidedly did not.

The next morning, room service wheeled our parfaits, coffee, and pitcher of ice-water on a little table that sat in between our beds. This was amazing. We didn't even have to get out of bed. Maybe the best thing that's ever happened to me. Way better than finding out that the Sheraton charged us fifty bucks a night to park the car.

But the crowning glory is what happened on our way home. Apparently fed up with paying the tolls for the Skyway, the SUV in the lane next to us completely blows through the gate. And shatters it. And never stops. It takes off into the great unknown. D wonders if he's on the run from the law. I point out that if he wasn't before, he is now. I bet the City of Chicago does not take kindly to people both foregoing the customary toll and busting public property.

Sir, whoever you are, I respect and admire you.

Lola Hates You All

Well, probably not you specifically, if you're reading this (I said "probably," security at the Penal Gallery ain't what it used to be. In fact, there's a decent chance that you are both 1) reading this and 2) hated by me.).



I have been a negligent blogger lately. I am not unaware of this. And no, I don't wanna hear about it. It will make me cranky. I have been a negligent blogger, but that is only because I have been trying to conform to the standard of care of my regular life (See? I can still work the legal angle). This has included working, completing my bar application, going to Chicago, starting a paper, becoming unwittingly embroiled in a family feud, busting my leg, doing my work for the Law Review, getting sick, and oh, yeah, reading for class. This is, indeed, why I've been feeling so cranky. And yes, I will have details about the more important points. After I get this next work avalanche off my desk.



Which, is what I've been doing. I'm like Sisyphus, pushing that huge freakin' boulder up the hill, every time I think I've gotten to the top, it rolls back over me. And crunches me like a leaf. Which, led to a brilliant idea yesterday: every time a staff member makes a stupid mistake (i.e., not including sources, not checking quotes, the basic stuff they're required to do to meet the minimum requirements of their assignments) instead of subjecting them to our disciplinary process (which really, makes more work for me and the rest of the committee) they will be required to put a dollar in a curse-jar type thing (the cite-checking jar?). The proceeds will go to buy candy, which I, and any other aggrieved parties, will eat. Minimal work for us, less punishment for the staff, more candy! Everyone's a winner. I can submit a bill with their feedback memos. I like this idea. Mostly because I like candy. It's one of the fail-safe ways to appease me. Especially when I've had a week that includes getting sick, getting my knee stuck in the bent position, and having my car hit in the parking lot while I was at work.

So, that's the moral of the story: whoever said that the third year they bore you tell can get bent, I'm busy, I'm cranky, and I like candy. Further bulletins as events warrant.

This is Bat Country

Rumors of my death, it seems, have been greatly exaggerated. To the surprise of all and the dismay of some, I made it back from Vegas.

5 days, 4 nights, 3 people, 2 "Bones," 1 hotel room, 0 fires.

And I only lost 60 bucks.

Vegas is great. There's food, shopping, you can smoke almost everywhere and you can walk down the street with a giant margarita at any time of day. If I were to design a city, those features would be very important.

I rode the ride that spins you over the strip, I shopped, and I had gelato at the Venetian.

Now, we all know that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. So, if you want to know more, you'll have to ask.

But, at one point, one of us looked like this.