Alumni Relations

I'm in the Law Review office, stuffing envelopes. I'm not supposed to be stuffing envelopes, my committee members are supposed to be stuffing envelopes. But I just really don't want to do anything else, so, I revert to the comfort of collating and folding.

Phone call. The two staff members with me look up in alarm. Like maybe the phone is a fake and is in fact a bomb that is now going to explode.

Sadly, nothing that fantastic.

I pick up, and politely greet our caller. (Say what you want about me, but I have very nice phone manners. My mama raised me right.)

"Hi, I'm an alumni of the Law College and of the Law Review."

"Great! How can I help you?" (People who only speak to me on the phone probably think I'm a lot nicer and cuter than I actually am.


"Are you one of the students who writes for the Law Review?" Ok, at this point I begin to suspect that he is not in fact a Law Review alum. I happen to be a student who has written something for the Law Review, but that's really just dumb luck, because that's not really what we do in this office.

"Um. Yes, I'm member of the Law Review. How can I help you?"

"Well, I'm a practitioner, and I have a question. Can you answer it for me?"

I assume maybe he wants to know how to submit an article.

"Well, the legislature changed some words in some law and I want to know if judges are just going to automatically throw these MIP cases out from now on."

Now I'm starting to doubt that he's an alum of the Law school and maybe not even a practitioner, because I think then maybe he would realize that I can't give legal advice and he certainly shouldn't be asking some random law student for it. Not to mention the fact that I'm not a judge and am in no position to say how judges are going to interpret a given statute. Also, lazy-face, it's called research. Do some.

I pause for a second, wondering if maybe this is some sort of test.

"Um. Well, I'm not sure and I really can't give legal advice (which you should know, if you are indeed a lawyer, as I'm starting to suspect you are not) and even if I was a lawyer, it would be hard for me to say, because I'm not a judge (also, DO SOME RESEARCH)."

"Ok. Thanks, bye!"

Why do I always field the weird phone calls?

Sin in the Second City

Escape from the Law College. Ok, it's a family vacation in Chicago, but it's three days of not-the-pit. For many of you, family vacation conjures idllyic images of picnic baskets and campgrounds, playing "I Spy" in the car and going to see national landmarks in good weather, and playing board games in bad weather.

You've obviously never been on vacation with my family.

While it's true that we ocassionally escape to a lake house with a boat to do water-sport type things, the overwhelming theme of most of our family vacations revolve around food and booze. Hell, we even go wine-tasting up at the lake. As D said to A.J. when he said I should go see the bats take off in Austin "I know my sister, if they're not serving wine at the end, she's not going."

I was up at the ass-crack of dawn, arrived at my gate, and started slogging through some law review stuff (I know, I'm lame) just in time to see some guy have a mantrum because his flight had switched gates and he didn't know where the new one was. He full on calls Northwest to bitch because the woman at our gate told him where the new gate was. He told her she had attitude. I told him he was an asshole (yes, of course I actually told him that). I touched down in Chicago early on Friday morning. I thought about maybe getting breakfast or something, since I'd been up since 5 and it was now 8 local time. Ha. Jabba (my father) wants to go directly to the museum, without passing "Go" or collecting $200, or even a blueberry muffin.

He's a man who frequently types up itineraries for two day trips, Jabba. I cannot tell you how disconcerting it was that he had no specific plan for this little jaunt. And yet, our schedule was not flexible enough to allow for me to eat something before going to the museum. Whatever. I got to see "Sue" and mummies and shit, which made me happy. But, note to the Field Museum: way to hate on the Native American Exhibit. Every other exhibit in yo damn building is all multi-media and has nice pictures interwoven with themed-display cases and video and nice lighting. Meanwhile, you clearly haven't done a damn thing with the Native American exhibit since the 70s when pinning a headdress and a blanket to blank walls was the height of presentation. Fail. I judge you. I even judge you after eating which means you truly have failed.

Once we considered ourselves appropriately cultured for the day, we went shopping. D did not accompany us on this trip, because she was in Toronto, where unbeknownst to her, but knownst to all of us, A.J. was going to pop the question. Thus, I had no female shopping buddy before the arrival of my youngest sister and my stepmother. And also, there was no one to be as annoyed as I was about what happened at Nordstrom's. I'm walking through the cosmetics area, because there are a few items I wish to purchase. A lady with a sample comes up to me and asks if I'd like to test her moisturizer. "Sure." I reply, it smells nice, and hey, it's a freebie. I reproduce our exchange for your benefit:

"So, do you use moisturizer in your daily routine?"

"Um, yeeeeees" (Does it look like I don't?)

"Which moisturizer do you use"

"Clinique three-step, oil-free"

"Oh, well, you might want to make the switch to this. Clinique doesn't have any anti-aging agents in it. This does, and it's time for you to step it up."

FUCK. YOU. BITCH. I do not require anti-aging agents, and I do not need to have my skin/age insulted by some botoxed teenager who weighs twelve pounds. And if you want me to buy your fucking 80 dollar face cream, telling me my skin looks old is not the way to do it. And it's a lie. I may have a lot of faults, but bad skin ain't one of em. Hooker.

It's not too long after this that we decide to go get a glass of wine while waiting on Kentucky Derby and Barely Legal. I notice that I have a voicemail. It's from D. It says "Hey Lola, it's D call me back, I have something to tell you!" I assume this is the "I'm engaged!!!!" phone call. But, knowing D, I decide to play it safe. It's just as likely that the important information is that Miller Lite cans come with French writing on them in Canada or something.

"Soooo, you have something to tell me?"

"Yeah, I got an interview at Younker's for seasonal help!! Isn't that hilarious? Becky (K.D.'s sister) works there!"

My face. It is dead pan. What. the. fuck. That is her big news. *facepalm.*

Dinner was at Fogo de Chao, a Brazillian steakhouse that I totally recommend. You have a coaster that is green on one side, red on the other. Brazillian men in tight pants bring around skewers of meat. If you want some, you flip your card to green. The meat was fantastic. As was the Caipirina I downed with dinner. Hadn't had one of those since I lived in Ecuador. It was as tasty and as potent as I remembered.

Which brings me to my after-dinner activities. Full and oddly turned on, I left the restaurant to meet Shanna, one of my college roomates for a drink (Jabba insisted on "making sure I got in" to the bar. Because I am clearly 14 and going on my first date or something). We drink a couple of $10 martinis and then decide that it's time to get a cheap beer and call it a night (yeah, it's before 10). There is a huge line at Howl at the Moon, so we decide to have our beer at the bar in my hotel. Oh, baby. We knows how to live.

Except, we didn't have beer. We split a bottle of champagne. And made the acquaintance of very nice guy who was in town on business and (I couldn't help but notice) very hot. So much for turning in after the beer. Shanna and I regaled him (or scared the shit out of him) with tales of our friends from college and the correct usage of a dental dam. I remarked that this is probably not what normaly girls talk about when he first meets them. He agreed and I replied "Well, you haven't met Shanna and I." In true classy fashion, we decide that the best way to end the night is not to go out, but to go to the 7-11 across the street, get cheap champagne and beer and have a hotel party. Shanna, none-too-quietly tells me that she is trying to get me laid, which I appreciate. I just don't appreciate it at that volume. Hotel Hottie, showing prescience (and an instant read on Shanna and I) orders Advil and has it sent up to his room. Shanna keeps "secretly" asking when she can leave, so I can get busy (she does this by texting me).

Meanwhile, I am getting text messages on K.D.s phone (mine was dead) from "Badmitton Billy." I have NO earthly idea who that is, and I don't want to know about my stepmother's texting friends and how they may have earned that nickname. Badmitton Billy seems concerned about K.D.s wherabouts. And that's when I look at the calllback number. It's my father. Now I really don't want to think about where he got his nickname (I found out. It's boring. I will leave it to imagination. It's better that way).

4 a.m. Chicago time. I wake up. In Hotel Hottie's room. Normally, I would just enjoy this and maybe wake him up. Today, I am dimly aware of the fact that I am sharing a hotel room with my family. Epic fail. Hotel Hottie snags my number and I sneak in like a teenager after curfew. I really, truly, feel like I'm 16, sneaking in after fooling around with a boy. I somehow avoided waking anyone.

It was the next morning that I got the text from Hotel Hottie, asking me to come back. It's just as well. I apologize for missing his message and he suggests drinks. Which throws me, because I honestly thought I'd never hear from him again.

We're at the aquarium when we all notice missed calls. From D. Barely Legal gets there first. I'll be damned if she gets the announcement before I do. I can hear D ask if I'm around and then for B.L. to put the phone on speaker. Aaaaaaaaaand she's engaged! And A.J. dropped the ring! (I could hear him in the background saying "Come ON!") And we all knew about it and no one blew it. Shocking, I know.

I take stock. While D's being all lovey-dovey engaged in Canda, I am sharing a double bed with my 17 year old sister. Clearly, I must needs have another fantastic night to prove my fabulousness.

Ask, and ye shall receive. I meet up with Emily, for a cocktail party for her doctorate program. This turned out to be lame and we got harrassed by a man on a rickshaw. So, back to my lobby bar we go. No champagne today. Jack Daniels on the rocks for her, and Grey Goose on the rocks for me. Which is how Hotel Hottie finds us after his conference. Emily, God bless her, ducks out shortly after this to meet up with other friends.
Which finds us at the local dive sports bar, heckling the men playing the boxing game. This was truly entertaining. One man, slightly smaller than his buddy, was getting really upset every time his score was beaten, yet, he had to keep his cool for the sake of his female companion. This led to Hotel Hottie and I making up dialogue. Also, a ranking system for how friendly you can be to someone based on their score at boxing. At this point, we "remember" that we never drank the beer from the night before and retire to his room to drink it. Yeah, we got like, three sips in apiece. I don't know how many people go on family vacation and sleeps with the sexy stranger from the hotel bar, but let me tell you: if you haven't tried it, you should. It's weekends like these that remind me how great it can be to be single. Even though he teased me for having to sneak into my shared room like I'm coming home from prom.

Which is what I'm telling the fabulous Amie the next morning over breakfast. She laughs and tells me that her friend, a new reader, has summed me up: "she's funny, but kinda slutty." She's got me there. A girl's gotta have fun, right?

D asks me how the trip was "Well, while you were getting engaged in Toronto, I was getting drunk and lucky in Chicago."

You do things your way baby girl, and I'll do things mine.

Do You Feel Lucky, Punk?

I maintain that the law college is built like a casino. Like a casino, there are almost no windows, no fresh air, and few clocks. You're not supposed to have any idea what time it is, or indeed, what day it is. This goes further, you completely lose track of what is going on outside of the little bubble. They design it that way, so you're not distracted by the fact that it's, say, half-off wine night, or your spouse's birthday.


Which is why it should come as no surprise that I didn't think twice about letting the Professor I am a T.A. for set office hours for me one Friday night. I wasn't thrilled, but I figured it would be a good opportunity to get some work done and I set off. Only to find the road closed down for, I shit you not, the Homecoming Parade.


Needless to say, when I actually arrive on campus, I'm in no angelic mood, having been diverted through the subdivisions numerous times. Also, I'm working on a Friday night. Lame. But, who am I kidding? I would be sitting around doing laundry otherwise.



I'm a T.A. for one of those classes that all 1Ls need to take, and at this time of year, they're exceptionally antsy. But I still have a hard time believing that anyone is going to come in on a Friday night. And if they do, I think I'm going to say "It's Friday night, get the fuck out of here and get a life. It's too late for me, but you can still run. RUN!"



While I'm waiting for 1Ls that never come, I do something uncharacteristically kind and help one of my staff members, we'll call him Joe, with finding sources for his assigment. I walk him through how to find the regulation he seeks and send him off into the big kids' world to print and find the other reguations in that section. This goes well for a few minutes. Until he informs me that there is no title page for this section of the C.F.R. I pause. I know that this is published by the government. I know there is a title page. I've already spent like, 20 minutes helping him do something that he should have been able to do without me, so I'm not feeling too sympathetic.



"There's no title page."



I calmly respond, "Yes, I'm sure there is. Just keep looking. Click to the table of contents."



He clicks, like two more times. "No, I don't think there's a title page." He's starting to sound petulant and frustrated.



"Oh, I bet there is."



"Prove it."

The heads of the two other guys at the table snap up immediately, eyes wide, they're looking between him and I, probably to see exactly what I'm going to do. Like I'm possibly going to rip his throat out with my teeth, or rip his sack off like a paper towel and stuff it up his nose. Let's face it, those are both threats I've used before, and I already said I was cranky. I look at him and pause, just long enough for his to widen and calmly reply "Wow, we're feeling ballsy today aren't we?" He has the grace to give a little apologetic chuckle. I'm still on my kinder, gentler, Lola kick (kinda) so I simply go on,

"I bet I can find it." It takes me under two minutes to find the title page. And I give him instructions, trying my best not to smirk. Reminds me of when I would complain to my mom that I couldn't find something in my room and she'd say "If I come in there and I can find it...."

"You're...kind of amazing..." He says.

Better write that down.

What We Have Here is Failure to Communicate

I always assumed it would be human stupidity that gave me the fatal stroke. I may have underestimated our computer friends.

On a Monday, not so very long ago, I am trying to complete the relatively simple task of printing a proof of service. The printer informs me that there is a communication error. I'm not sure what this means. I try restarting both computer and printer (my fix for everything) because, seriously, the damn thing worked FIFTEEN SECONDS AGO. No use. The junior clerk at Cafe Legalese is trying to fax something across town. Communication error. I give in, and go to Dell's LiveChat support, eager for step-by-step guidance through this problem.

Bad idea. I'm sure this person doesn't speak the English, because he cannot provide an alternate explanation for terms that must have come out of the operation manual for pros. "Ma'am," he begins, never a good thing, because I fucking hate when people call me "Ma'am" like I'm some 60 year old Southern grandma shellin' butterbeans with a bottle of moonshine. "Ma'am, please provide me with your whatsamajiggysomethingabout IP." Excuse me? How do I find that? If I knew what that was, do you think I'd be talking to YOU? I probably would have just rebuilt this thing if that were the case.

I ask him to please explain this to me like a five year old, because I am not good with computers.
"Begin at the left navigation and select the somethingincomputerspeak." Select the what with the what? Ok, we need to talk. Maybe I wasn't making myself clear. I need you to explain this to me like a five-year-old who only speaks English. "I'm sorry sir, but I really need you to explain this without any computer jargon. I don't understand what you want me to do."

Finally, either his fingers were cramping up from typing the manual verbatim, or he sensed I was about to reach through the computer screen and throttle him, because he finally just seized control of my computer and printer remotely and then informed me that I essentially needed to go to the printer settings menu and type in a little number. I spent my entire morning on this.

It's this sort of shit that makes me want to run screaming from the idea or starting my own practice after law school--what if I can't afford to pay someone to deal with this?

Another day, another computer, another burst blood vessel. I am following the step-by-step instructions on the way to compile electronically and thus save my self approximately 60% of the time I spend on compiling articles. Everything appears to have gone well, until I notice that some of the footnotes have been re-numbered. No big deal, I don't save the changes and start over again with a clean base copy. I check again. Two different footnotes have been deleted and now everything is re-numbered. Great. I mutter obscenities under my breath. Dan senses my blood pressure rising and wisely concentrates on whatever he's reading. I take a deep breath, don't save the changes and try one more time, and it looks like I've gotten it this time. Nope, yet two different footnotes have been changed. My face slams into the desk and I'm about 3 seconds from flinging Computie into the wall. Dan, sensing danger, says he's calling it a night and suggests drinking. I'm sure this is a ploy to avoid being hit by richocheting pieces of Computie, but he says the magic word (alcohol!), so I play along.

The next day, I think I've figured out how to fix this. I reject formatting changes that don't make sense. The only change that cannot be rejected is the deletion of the footnote numbers. At this point, I'm pretty sure I smell burning toast. I make a last ditch effort to have Susan explain this to me. At this point, I'm fully aware that I've spent so much time trying to find the quick way to do this that I may as well have done this by hand in the first instance. Apparently, I have done this exactly the way I was instructed to and not one other person's computer did this. It's settled, Computie has some sort of vendetta against me. At this point, even my stubborn ass has to concede the contest to Computie and buckle down to manually compile this article, knowing full well that I've already wasted enough time to have finished it already. Hours later, driving home at midnight, the speed limit changes from 45 to 35 maybe two miles from my house. I'm coasting down and I get pulled over.

What do you want God, blood?

The Call is Coming From Inside the House

A night at home with our kitten, Binx (not his real name, but it's what I would have named him, if Finn hadn't named him before we even decided to adopt him). I 'm still down for the count, and have made a concession to the various evils in my body by sleeping on the couch all day. I can't drink, I can't smoke, and I can't have sex, so I'm not entirely sure what to do with my Friday night. So, I'm drinking tea, watching movies, and cuddling with Binx.

I hear the text notification on my phone "ding!" so I pick up to see who it is. Wasn't my phone. Finn is in out of town, but it's possible he left his phone (we have the same phone, so there's a lot of "was that you or me?" in our house) at the apartment. So, too lazy to search, I text him: "Hey, did you leave your phone at home?" He replies, which means he has his phone and makes his answer totally unnecessary ("Nope."). Hm. If it wasn't my phone and it wasn't his, whose was it?

I reply, "Hm. Then we have a ghost phone in the apartment. Enjoy the party!"

I puzzle over this. Seriously, I distinctly heard the text noise. This would not be my first experience with a ghost phone. I used to hear a phone vibrating. The first time, I thought someone had left their phone at my house and was lodged in my cushions or something. No one was missing a phone, and no stray phone has ever turned up. But it has been some time since I've heard a ghost phone, and it always vibrated before. I chalk it up to a ghost with Verizon service and start flipping channels.

Phone call: It's Finn. "Hey, can you do me a favor? I'm getting really paranoid."

Lola, thinking: "Oh, it's sweet! He's worried that there's someone in the house and I'm all alone and sick! Expecting him to ask me to check the house and invite a friend over, I reply, "Of course, what do you need?"

Finn: "Can you check Binx's collar and loosen it? I'm worried it's too tight."

Lola: "Yeah, I'll loosen his collar. See you Sunday."

Seriously? Our house is haunted by a Verizon ghost, and he's worried about the cat's collar. Seriously? I'm going back to bed.

Alive and Schticking

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.

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.