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.

A Long December

Christmas music on the Pandora station plays over crappy laptop speakers, pajamas in the Law Review Office, outlining until the library closes at 2, and coming up with new and exciting curses for the professors, administration and law school in general.

Oh Holy...Shit. It's a Law School Christmas.

Fall semester brings you the giddy-happy-stress-depression wonder that is a December Finals Season. When you're about to tear your hair out from the end of the semester "God-get-me-out-of-here-I-don't-care-about-Bankruptcy-anymore" syndrome, they send you on Thanksgiving break. A whole week off from law school, to give you time to spend with your loved ones and enjoy Football, parades, and lots o'turkey.

Yeah, about that.

Thanksgiving is for getting serious about studying for finals, and don't let anyone tell you differently. They won't, because half of your class will be in the library, causually chatting with you at the circulation desk either:
1) complaining about how unproductive they've been so far in thinly veiled attempt to scare the shit out of you because "It's only Tuesday and I only have outlines for three out of four classes and I've only done one set of practice questions!" knowing full well you're maybe half-way done with your first outline;
2) complaining about how unproductive they've been, which you could probably judge from your 45 minute Facebook chat about how any motivation has completely disappeared; or
3) Bragging about how prepared to take the exam they are; somehow completely oblivious to how close they are to having you shove your highly-prized E& E up their nose.

We have the right to remain silent. What we lack is the ability.

A word of advice: lie to your families about when you get out for Thanksgiving break. The last thing you need on top of the stress of studying, the psychological warfare waged by those people in your class, and the general crappiness of November is your parents giving you grief about staying up at school when you don't have class and could get your work done at home (no, you can't. trust me). I have lied to my family for the past three years about when I finish for the semester; and though I general condone truthiness, this one will save your life. Or at least that last shred of sanity.

And then, more advice: when you do get home, do not try to pretend you're going to study. Embrace those precious hours of peace when you can drink and eat and gossip with your family and friends.

Because then you go back to school. And then there's no escape.

It's difficult to fully explain to someone who's not experienced the atmosphere of law school final exams. One of the Kates got close: "ever been prison raped?" But it's more than that, it's like being prison raped over two weeks with a bunch of other people and occasionally, they give you nitrus oxide. There's the stress and the mental strain, definitely. But then, there's the slaphappy. The giddiness, the parade of yet-funnier youtube clips, the riding of office chairs...There's the happy discussion of holiday plans, always tempered by a bitter "when I'm finally fucking done with finals" and the stress of Christmas itself.

Oh yeah, Christmas.

I believe that depression rates spike around the holidays not just because of all of the money, cleaning, shopping, and listening to your grandmother talk you through her colonoscopy; but because there's so much pressure to be in a good mood and overflowing with the Christmas spirt and to have yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

And I love Christmas. Just ask Finn. It's all over our apartment.

But finals does this thing where it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, you're excited, but you're stressed and grumpy. And guilty for being stressed and grumpy around Christmas. And you want to Christmas shop. But you don't have time. And you're pissed that you're going to have to push your shopping until the last minute, thereby making you more stressed. And you're excited to hear from your friends who are in town visiting their parents. But if you have to explain why you're not home yet one more time you'll explode.

Get the picture?

Then there's that magical moment when you walk out of your last final and directly to the liquor store. Savor that moment. I love that moment. It's like Christmas morning. But with more nicotine and vodka.

It was a good Christmas. For the first time in recent memory, I wasn't clawing the walls after two days in my hometown. I saw a lot of people, had a lot of fun and helped my little sister pick out her wedding dress.

And, I find myself surprisingly optimistic about the coming year. But, as the song goes, there's reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last.

It'll get off to a good start. Nikki and V are setting me loose in Sin City. On New Year's. As Charlie remarked "Oh, there's a good idea."

Hey, what's the worst that could happen?

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?