What I Did on My Summer Vacation

I have been a negligent blogger lately. Mea culpa. The following is a story whereby I hope to explain my radio silence despite having a week off(!).

We'll start with Saturday. I went to my aunt and uncle's for cake and ice cream for my cousin's 18th birthday. I noticed him texting and asked him if he was going out with his friends later to celebrate. "Nah," he responded, "I'm going to bed. I have to work early tomorrow."

At this point, I had to re-evaluate my life. My 18-year-old cousin, a high school senior, was staying in on the Saturday night before his birthday. I was going to a kegger for a 28-year-old man with a job and a mortgage.

I redeemed myself (sort of) by going to a bridal shower on Sunday and conducting myself like a grown-ass person should. I then drove home. I was looking forward to a bubble bath with my new orange-ginger bubble bath and a glass of Bordeaux. I got to enjoy it for about ten minutes. At which point my lower abdomen started to hurt. Really, really badly. I did what any rational adult would do: I ignored it, hoping it would go away. That didn't work. Especially since the pain was directly over my right hip, also known as "where your appendix lives." Mama Lo informed me I would know if it was my appendix because I wouldn't be able to bend my knee and pull it to my chest. Yeah, my knee moved about two inches and I started screaming. I gave up and called Olivia to see if she wanted to take me to the E.R. (she brought me a book to read, for which I love her).

I'll give you the short version: I spent 4 out of 4 days seeking medical treatment. I spent 3 out of those 4 nights in the E.R. I had 2 C.T.s, 5 I.V. attempts, 3 successful I.V.s, 2 additional needle sticks for blood tests, 2 urine tests, 2 pelvic exams, an x-ray, 4 doses of morphine, 2 prescriptions for painkillers, and countless painful prods in the abdomen.

Doctors: (jabbing me in the stomach, I grimace and make a sound I didn't know I could make). Damn, it sure seems like it's your appendix!
Lola: Swell.
Doctors: But it's not showing up on the C.T. Take the Vicodin. Come back if you're not better in 12 hours. It still may be your appendix, we don't want that thing to rupture!
Lola: (gulp!)

And I still have no diagnosis. On Wednesday, really cute PA-C guy (more on him later) announced that surgery was coming down to talk to me. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of bing cut open, but I figured "hey, at least they know what's wrong!"
About that.
Two of them came in, jabbed me in the stomach some more and then shrugged. "Could be kidney stones. But, you know, 25% of the time when someone comes in with lower abdominal pain, we never figure out what it is. Take the vicodin. Come back if you start running a fever."
Lola: Are you absolutely sure you passed your medical boards?

A word on really cute P.A.-C guy (hereinafter PACMAN). He was...distractingly cute. I'm not positive about anything that happens under the influence of morphine (I hate morphine. Even after the pounding in my chest and heaviness in my limbs subsides, I still say stupid things. Like, I can hear how stupid I sound, but I am powerless to stop it), but I am 95% sure I made an ass of myself in front of him. Like, kept grinning like an idiot when he'd ask me questions or we'd make eye contact. Now, Grey's Anatomy implies that having a hot medical treater is like winning the lottery. Which may be true for most people, I am not most people. The following exchanges, reproduced for your benefit, occurred:
PACMAN: Any nausea?
Lola: Yes.
PACMAN: Vomiting?
Lola: Nope.
PACMAN: Loss of appetite?
Lola: Yes.
PACMAN: What about diarrhea?
Lola: (mortified whisper) yes.

Sometime later...
PACMAN: Well, no ovarian cysts showed up on the C.T., but just to be sure, I have to do a manual exam. So, if you haven't taken your underwear off yet, go ahead and do that, and I'll be back with a nurse.
Lola: You need me to take off my underwear? (under any other circumstances, hearing that sentence from his mouth would have been the highlight of my week. Except he was about to do a pelvic exam. And I hadn't shaved my legs. I swear that the was the first thought I had. Life is cruel.)
PACMAN: Yep, I'll be back in a minute.
Olivia: ...I'll just step outside too....
Lola: Thanks for that.
A minute later...
PACMAN: So any pain? Any discomfort?
Lola: (bites tongue): Not from the exam.
PACMAN: So, the exam doesn't make it worse? Just the pain you've been having? And the discomfort is just....the normal....
Lola: (stares at ceiling in abject horror) Yeah, just the pain on the right side. No additional discomfort.
PACMAN: Good. Well, everything looks good--seems fine down there.
Lola: thanks.
Olivia: (re-entering): So, how'd it go?
Lola: Excuse me, I have to go die now.

The worst part is, I think in my drugged-up state (damn you, morphine!) I confided to my lady-doctor, a bubbly, sympathetic woman, that I thought PACMAN was hot. I think she told him. I say this only because when PACMAN was going over my discharge stuff, he kept asking "so, anything else for me?" and giving me this funny look even after Olivia and I asked him a dozen questions and said we didn't have anymore. Well, that was a lie. I had two more questions: 1) Are you single? 2) Wanna take me out sometime? But, I had had enough humiliation for one night, so I left with another pain med prescription and a laughing Olivia.
Bottom line: I have spent the past three weeks alternately in pain or drugged up. It doesn't do much for me. I hate Vicodin maybe more than morphine because it makes me nauseous. But, hilarity did ensue. I was waiting for she-funk to pick me up to get food one day, and I decided to check my phone. Which had died during the night, while I was Vicodin'd out. I found several panicked voicemails/texts.

Voicemail (and text): J-man: Are you ok? What are they doing for you? Do you need someone to come up there?
Voicemail: D: Hey, are you alright? Dad wants me to come down to check on you? I called Olivia. I didn't leave a message. Tell her it was me.

So, I call back:
Phone call, J-man: Are you ok?
Lola: I'm fine. I took my pain meds and my phone died. I've been napping and doing laundry.
J-man: Do you need your sister to come up there?
Lola: No. . .
J-man: Better call her then!
Lola: (eyeroll)

Phone call:
Lola: D, it's me
D: Oh my God, are you ok?
Lola: yes, Jabba just overreacted. My phone died and I didn't know it because I was drugged and asleep.
D: Ahhh, good. Tell Olivia I was the one who called her.
Lola: For the record, if something really bad happened, the hospital, the police, or one of my crazy friends will probably contact you guys. Simmer down. If anyone had bothered to check facebook, they would have realized I was safe and sound and doing laundry.
D: good point.

Phone call: Mama Lo.
Lola: Mercy Hospital!
Mama Lo: HAHAHAHAHA!
Lola: See? You're the only one who thought that was funny!

I get the impression most mothers would not have been as amused.
So, there you have it. The combination of drugs, searing pain, and Barbri have conspired to make me very cranky. And a negligent blogger. So much for my summer vacation.

Pompous and Circumstance: A Law School Graduation Story

Well, I finished the damn paper. It was a long road, made longer by my numerous false starts and general loathing of my topic. Believe it or not, I finished writing it in the chair at the salon as I got my hair highlighted (I had to be pretty for graduation). I missed out on fun with Olivia, the P-Funks, and the Hardy Boys because I was working on the damn thing. A word about the Hardy Boys: so named in honor of the ridiculous, yet mostly harmless situations they seem to get themselves into. There are two of them, Frank and Joe, and when I join them on adventures (does this make me Nancy Drew in a rare cross-over novel?), the experience is invariably bookended with me shaking my head and muttering "I can't believe I'm about to do this" or "I hate them both" before, and shaking my fists at the sky and wondering "Why do I let the Goddamn Hardy Boys talk me into this shit?" afterwards. For all my bitching and exasperation, I usually have fun and get a great story out of it (I think the funniest involved an all-night diner, a lot of vodka, and a minor viral video sensation. The best one's title involves the phrase "Mexican Standoff," so it is best not discussed here.). Thus, it's fair to say that most of my protest is pure posturing. Even though the night usually involves so much eye-rolling that I sometimes fear they will get stuck in the "up" position. The point is, I missed out on what could have been either a) a night of hilarity, or at least amusement or b) a chance to test new and exciting curses on my friends.

Two days after I hit "send" on my final paper, it was time to graduate. As soon as I was officially done, I tried on my snazzy law school graduation robes. This would be better with a visual. You're not going to get it, because I don't know how to blur faces out on Photoshop. I will, however, transcribe the following exchange between Finn and myself as I walked into the hallway in full regalia:

Lola: Well, I guess this is how they're trying to keep us humble…

Finn: What? By dressing you up as a character from Harry Potter?

Lola: The hood's not staying where it's supposed to! I need—

Finn: A wand?

For those who've never seen it, J.D.s graduate in doctoral robes. Which, have long (though, not nearly as long as master's degree robes), bell-shaped sleeves with velvet bands on the sleeves. And velvet on the front. Lots of velvet for May. And then, there's a "hood" (which is a misnomer; it's more like a really weird collar. It hangs around your neck, looking kinda like a normal collar, but then it hangs down your back in a giant loopy-tail thing. With two colors in satin representing your school's colors and then a band made of, you guessed it, velvet, which denotes your degree. Law is purple. We were fabulous.). But, the cherry on this sundae is the hat. It is made of, wait for it—velvet!—and looks, in the bag, like a normal four-cornered mortar-board. HA! It is bigger than your standard mortar-board, and, most importantly—floppy. It was like a graduation beret. Topped with a purple tassel of course. Not even being dressed up like Albus Dumbledore could dampen my joy at this momentous event; I was going to walk across the stage and graduate from law school summa cum laude (I may have numerous personal faults, but I'm pretty good at school. Yeah, I'm kinda bragging a bit, no, it's not particularly attractive, but I worked my ass (and two boyfriends) off, and I'm pretty pumped about it. So, get over it); something that, despite my continuous complaints about law school, has been my dream for the better part of my life. So great was my joy that I even agreed to meet the J-man and family for breakfast the morning. We agreed to meet at my apartment between 8 and 8:30 a.m.

Those of you who've had the dubious pleasure of dealing with me before 10 a.m. and a cup of coffee, you know I'm not a morning person and can probably see where this is going. My father (and the older of my two younger sisters, actually) is always a few minutes late for family stuff. His favored tip-off is calling five minutes after he was supposed to arrive and saying "I'm just down the road." It is purposely vague. We have come to understand that "just down the road" means "approaching the interstate exit," which is a good 15-20 minutes from his house. D has been about an hour late for my birthday dinner for the past two years running. As she lives an hour away, I think it's fair to say that she's been leaving her house at the start time of dinner. Needless to say, I was pretty sure I had until 8:15 at the very earliest. I woke up around 7:25 and started getting ready. Slowly, groggily. Cursing myself for the poor decision to forego setting my automatic timer. At 7:30, my door buzzer rang. WHA? As I scrambled into a robe, and to the door, I realized that D was not on time, but early. I quickly got my coffee-maker ready and gave D instructions for working it. The J-man calls:

J-man: Are you almost ready?

Lola: I just need to get dressed and put on some make-up (ok, I had to shower too, but I didn't have to blow-dry my hair)

J-man: How's that going?

Lola: It will go much faster if I'm not talking about it on the phone. . .

J-man: Good deal, we'll be there soon. I'm just down the road.

I was thinking this gave me at least 15 minutes, so I hopped in the shower. And got out, less than 10 minutes later, to see my father and his family had been let in. I squeaked out "be just a few minutes and scrambled to put on clothes and make-up. But, I was ready by 8:05, so it's all good. And I was even early to my check-in at ThirdTier (yep, my dear friend Amie and I graduated from the same law school). I'll be honest, I was excited for graduation, but also dreading the ceremony. She-funk graduated from her master's program the week before me, and their ceremony was over three hours. Three hours in a heavy robe draped with velvet with no air conditioning promised brutality (a fitting end to law school). Especially since we had a special guest speaker, a faculty speaker and a student speaker. Lawyers love to hear themselves talk. I was anticipating a Gone With the Wind length epic. After our traditional walk to the building, ThirdTier President started speaking. Really slowly. I groaned inwardly and mentally girded my loins.

I was pleasantly surprised. We literally spent as long milling around the Law College as we did at the ceremony. We were finished in an hour and a half. I'm still kind of waiting for it to sink in. Even after I saw my terrible professional shots. I won't be ordering them. I do plan on printing the picture, taken at ThirdTier with my favorite people, the people who made it possible to survive three years of this hell and still have fond memories. WAY better than a picture of me shaking hands with the President of ThirdTier, who I spoke to for the first time as he handed me my fake diploma (a poster of Dean Asshat's inane "inspirational" saying. Which he repeated when we lined up. We all booed.)

So, for a minute, I'd like to give a shout-out: to my law school family. You are the people who made this possible. Through three years of late-night studying, marriages, deaths, breakdowns, break-ups, babies, baby-scares, baby-quiche, ridiculous adventures, ridiculous bad luck, job-hunting in a terrible economy and a million little successes and failures, you made it possible to keep a sense of humor about all this. We made it through and did it with style (and surprisingly few hangovers). So, for being the family that ThirdTier made, thank you, I love you, and CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!

One Page at a Time

2:18 a.m.

5,108 words.

5 pages to go.

My last all-nighter of law school. Hopefully, ever.

I've had so much caffeine I think I'm going out of my mind. I have 13 hours to finish this. I'm really doubting my ability to do it.

I may still be sane in 13 hours, but I doubt it. If nothing else, I'll be free.

5 pages and approximately 1,900 words to go.

Wish me luck.

Keep on Rockin', Sisyphus

4,572 words. I am starting to seriously doubt that I will ever finish this paper. I feel like I'm rocking out, committing my astute (read: obvious) and insightful (read: banal and completely pointless) observations and suggestions about the law to paper. And then I look at the page count. 9 pages to go. 8 pages to go. 7 pages to go. Go, Lola, GO!

And then I look at the word count.

Fuck it anyway, two people will read this: Kapes and Professor Lawr. Well, four if you count Olivia who I cooked dinner for and Dan who I bribed with a bottle of wine to proofread. I sincerely doubt that anyone gives a shit about what a narcissistic, self-absorbed, arrogant 3L (is there any other kind?) says about anything.

I sure don't, and I'm writing the paper.

As anyone who has ever met me in real-life can attest, I'm completely neurotic about grades. Especially where Kapes is concerned. She has a very high estimation of my academic abilities (probably higher than I really deserve). I have this mortal dread of disappointing her.

On the other hand, the final exams period of your final law school semester is an experience that is soul-sucking on a level that I didn't previously know existed. You're just flat worn-out. Completely apathetic. You've been through the drill, outline, study, review, yadda-yadda-yadda, and you just can't help but think: what's the point? I've given three years, countless hours, a dress size, my stomach lining, healthy lung tissue, two gray hairs and 150 grand to this place. I don't care about issue-spotting anymore. Just let me out! I want to see sunlight!

Even the knowledge that without this paper I will not graduate is not enough to spur me into a rockstar speed-writing session. Every sentence is like pulling teeth. I feel like Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill. I push and I push and I push, and I still have 2,500 words to go. This grade-neurosis combined with my lack of motivation is a lethal combination. Back to the grind.

Keep on rockin', Sisyphus.

No Excuses: The Fight to the Finish

Paper update: 3,865 words out of the required 7,000. So, I'm over halfway done. And actually on a respectable writing roll (4.5 hours of reasonably constant writing). And, I'm fairly confident that at least 2,500 of those words don't suck. And my footnotes look like real footnotes (E texted me for the express purpose of reminding me that I am anal and turn on the formatting to make sure that there are two spaces in between sentences. She was eerily right. I had just turned on my show formatting for that very reason).

Real-time update: my sadistic little computer checked the box that includes footnotes in my word count. Little fucker. It tricked me. I lost approximately 1,200 words. On the upside, I have 1,200 words worth of footnotes. Which means that if they don't actually expand on and illuminate my topic, it will look like they do.

Real-time update: Ranting now about a weird little tort concept in my home state. I know that Kapes finds State Supreme Court's interpretation of this doctrine every bit as stupid as I do. Actually enjoying writing this section of the paper. Mostly because I get to make snarky comments that I know will make my favorite professor giggle. And I get to sound erudite while being snarky. And, I get to say "erudite," which is a fun word even though it sounds dirty. And, I get to say it's scholarly. Which makes me happy.

Real-time update: Olivia is sitting with me while I write this paper, but she does get to watch "Julie and Julia." Plans for the summer: making lobster for dinner. Starting with live lobster. I will sing "Lobster Killer." 3,562 words.

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.