With a mere five months to graduation, I am taking this opportunity to freak out. It's amazing--I had so much school left, I didn't have to worry about anything but passing my classes and getting through my internships. But now, suddenly, I have all sorts of things to think about, like what bar review class to take, whether or not to walk at graduation, what graduation announcements to send, how to fill out my bar exam application, updating my resume, and applying and interviewing for various jobs. (Also, I am interested in planning a wedding, which will hopefully take place this September.) Where did the time go?
Everyone knows someone and wants a copy of my resume to give to a friend/family member/co-worker/in-law or someone entirely unrelated to them who knows someone who knows someone who is a lawyer in a big firm in ___ (insert name of city/town/county here) and can probably get me a job. Unfortunately, none of those people have been able to really make it happen. I met one such person yesterday and, although I have had an encounter like this many times before that has not come to fruition, I am taking the bait and using this opportunity to beef up my resume and get it out before I do something that makes my standing go down somehow.
I like to think of this blog as an exercise in creative writing. I like to think of it as creative nonfiction because, let's face it, at times I am a little bit dramatic and sometimes exaggerate details to fit my particular circumstances. If this is an exercise in creative nonfiction, resume writing is a genre unto itself but, if I had to label it, I would have to say its non-creative fiction. I want to write, "I have no real skills, am not very smart, and have no work experience because your field requires me to be in school until I'm damn near geriatric, so please lower your standards," but that's kind of long and doesn't fit neatly in my bullet points. "I'll try really hard to not screw up," also seems somewhat inappropriate. It's too bad, because really it seems like that's all I can say for myself. Still, there must have been tons of lawyers who graduated at the same place I am or much, much, much lower and still made it work. I'm holding out hope.
If you have any resume suggestions, please send them my way. If you can find creative ways to discuss how "motivated" or "driven" or "detail oriented" I am, please feel free to provide short phrases that will fit neatly into bulleted points. Obviously, it doesn't need to be particularly creative. It just needs to make the employers look more than once at my resume. Too bad I can't go all Elle Woods and make it scented and pink. That might get me noticed.
Hire me. Someone. I really will try very hard not to screw up.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
All Grown Up.....Maybe
Two days ago, I received what may have been the biggest insult ever. And the worst part? It came from a five year old girl I only just met.
She complimented my necklace first off, which, even though it was coming from a five year old, was nice to hear. Whether the person who thinks you're stylish is five or fifty, it's still a compliment and it does give you little warm fuzzies. So, I complimented her shoes. They were sneakers almost like Chuck Taylors but with little rhinestones on the toes. She said thank you, they are her twinkletoes. I was instantly jealous, but we continued on with our conversation, her oblivious to the degree to which I now coveted her much-too-small-for-me sneakers. Then it happened.
"Are you somebody's mommy?" she asked, smiling up at me.
This, unfortunately, is a question I have heard before. This past mother's day, I had several well-meaning older gentlemen ask me if I had any children and, if so, they wished me a happy mother's day. I felt shocked at the time, but since then I have also had several people ask me where I'm in high school. Still others have been confused and insisted that my younger sister is the elder (probably mostly because she is grouchy and bitterness does seem to be much more closely associated with older women than with younger ones). I shrug it off and generally stroke my ego with the thought that, while I am neither in high school nor am I suffering from motherhood, I am at the exact age where it is impossible to tell for certain what age I really am. Many people seem shocked that I am 24. Still others seem to think that I am an appropriate age to be a mother. I shudder at the thought. Still, my conversation with this delightful child was far from over. She continued on.
"Are you just a grown up?"
I almost choked. Little girl, I thought, you have no idea how you have cut me to my very core. A grown up?? When did I become a grown up? I most certainly am NOT a grown up. Grown ups, you see, have jobs and health insurance and 401(K)s. Since I have none of these things, I cannot be a grown up. I tried to explain these things to her. Grown ups, you see, do not wear pink shoes. Grown ups cut their hair short and do not wear Hello Kitty hair ties. Grown ups are not in school and have investment portfolios. They do not laugh when their friends use the phrase "pee out my ass." They don't even HAVE friends who say things like that. They all talk about weather and politics. So, I cannot be a grown up.
I explained to her that I was not a grown up and, in my most lawyerly way, convinced her that I was, in fact, right. Schwoo. Victory!
She complimented my necklace first off, which, even though it was coming from a five year old, was nice to hear. Whether the person who thinks you're stylish is five or fifty, it's still a compliment and it does give you little warm fuzzies. So, I complimented her shoes. They were sneakers almost like Chuck Taylors but with little rhinestones on the toes. She said thank you, they are her twinkletoes. I was instantly jealous, but we continued on with our conversation, her oblivious to the degree to which I now coveted her much-too-small-for-me sneakers. Then it happened.
"Are you somebody's mommy?" she asked, smiling up at me.
This, unfortunately, is a question I have heard before. This past mother's day, I had several well-meaning older gentlemen ask me if I had any children and, if so, they wished me a happy mother's day. I felt shocked at the time, but since then I have also had several people ask me where I'm in high school. Still others have been confused and insisted that my younger sister is the elder (probably mostly because she is grouchy and bitterness does seem to be much more closely associated with older women than with younger ones). I shrug it off and generally stroke my ego with the thought that, while I am neither in high school nor am I suffering from motherhood, I am at the exact age where it is impossible to tell for certain what age I really am. Many people seem shocked that I am 24. Still others seem to think that I am an appropriate age to be a mother. I shudder at the thought. Still, my conversation with this delightful child was far from over. She continued on.
"Are you just a grown up?"
I almost choked. Little girl, I thought, you have no idea how you have cut me to my very core. A grown up?? When did I become a grown up? I most certainly am NOT a grown up. Grown ups, you see, have jobs and health insurance and 401(K)s. Since I have none of these things, I cannot be a grown up. I tried to explain these things to her. Grown ups, you see, do not wear pink shoes. Grown ups cut their hair short and do not wear Hello Kitty hair ties. Grown ups are not in school and have investment portfolios. They do not laugh when their friends use the phrase "pee out my ass." They don't even HAVE friends who say things like that. They all talk about weather and politics. So, I cannot be a grown up.
I explained to her that I was not a grown up and, in my most lawyerly way, convinced her that I was, in fact, right. Schwoo. Victory!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Useless, but Interesting
During my break from school, I have learned many interesting facts, some of which are believable and some of which are not so believable. If I may, I will indulge you in a little recitation.
I'm assuming that you have agreed that I may, and so, here goes.
1. Marilyn Monroe slept in the nude. She also bleached her pubic hair. In addition, she had irritable bowel syndrome. Didn't see that one coming, did you?
2. During the French Reign of Terror, executioners reported that they asked executed people questions moments after their heads were cut off...and they were able to answer. (Not for very long, I'm sure, and also, I don't know what questions were asked. I think I would ask, "Did that hurt?" But I might already know the answer.)
3. During the filming of Gone With the Wind, Vivien Leigh apparently gagged before kissing Clark Gable because his breath was so bad. (I, personally, do not believe this could possibly be the case--Vivien Leigh was a devoted smoker and SHE must have been smelling her own breath rather than Clark Gable's.)
4. During the making of the Wizard of Oz, the actress who played with Wicked Witch of the West was severely burned during the second taping of the scene where she leaves Munchkinland in a swirl of smoke. Because of this, in the movie, they included the first take---where you can see the trap door she exited through. (You're going to watch again, aren't you?)
5. Before the filming of the Harry Potter movies began filming, each of the three main stars (Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint) were assigned an essay--to describe the essence of their characters. Daniel wrote a couple of pages, Emma wrote a short novel, and Rupert totally forgot... A little bit like their characters in the movies, perhaps? Personally, I find this very funny. Maybe if you're not a huge Potter fan, though, it's less interesting.
6. A man from China went to an Ikea store and started designing furniture in a rural Chinese town and created a business that now grosses $1 million a year. The average income for a person in China is like $300 a month, and many farmers don't make that in a year. Did you know they had Ikeas in China?
7. It CAN snow a foot in the Tidewater area. When it does, you should not drive in your pregnant roller skate-looking car during the heaviest snow on a covered on ramp. You WILL get stuck and I WILL laugh at you.
8. A male platypus is venomous.
9. Although a hippopotamus is a vegetarian, they will still kill you. Therefore, mom is right that a hippo will eat you up and a hippo is not an appropriate Christmas gift.
10. In the rainforest, where insects are plentiful, there are certain spores that can give insects brain diseases. When this happens to ants, the rest of the ants take the affected ant friend away to die because when the spore germinates, it can kill off an entire colony. When it germinates, it sends a plant looking thing through the ant's head and it slowly goes crazy and dies. The more plentiful an insect species, the more likely a spore will attack that particular species. I wonder if all species take their sick away to die? Is that practical, or sad? Do ants have feelings? Unfortunately, each fun fact I discover only creates more questions.
I hope that you have enjoyed these fun facts although they are, unfortunately, completely worthless, and will probably never even give you a dramatic and decisive win while you watch Jeopardy on the couch with your friends. Probably you will never even have cause to mention them in general conversation unless, of course, you decide to write a blog about any or all of them and I certainly wouldn't judge you if you did.
I'm assuming that you have agreed that I may, and so, here goes.
1. Marilyn Monroe slept in the nude. She also bleached her pubic hair. In addition, she had irritable bowel syndrome. Didn't see that one coming, did you?
2. During the French Reign of Terror, executioners reported that they asked executed people questions moments after their heads were cut off...and they were able to answer. (Not for very long, I'm sure, and also, I don't know what questions were asked. I think I would ask, "Did that hurt?" But I might already know the answer.)
3. During the filming of Gone With the Wind, Vivien Leigh apparently gagged before kissing Clark Gable because his breath was so bad. (I, personally, do not believe this could possibly be the case--Vivien Leigh was a devoted smoker and SHE must have been smelling her own breath rather than Clark Gable's.)
4. During the making of the Wizard of Oz, the actress who played with Wicked Witch of the West was severely burned during the second taping of the scene where she leaves Munchkinland in a swirl of smoke. Because of this, in the movie, they included the first take---where you can see the trap door she exited through. (You're going to watch again, aren't you?)
5. Before the filming of the Harry Potter movies began filming, each of the three main stars (Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint) were assigned an essay--to describe the essence of their characters. Daniel wrote a couple of pages, Emma wrote a short novel, and Rupert totally forgot... A little bit like their characters in the movies, perhaps? Personally, I find this very funny. Maybe if you're not a huge Potter fan, though, it's less interesting.
6. A man from China went to an Ikea store and started designing furniture in a rural Chinese town and created a business that now grosses $1 million a year. The average income for a person in China is like $300 a month, and many farmers don't make that in a year. Did you know they had Ikeas in China?
7. It CAN snow a foot in the Tidewater area. When it does, you should not drive in your pregnant roller skate-looking car during the heaviest snow on a covered on ramp. You WILL get stuck and I WILL laugh at you.
8. A male platypus is venomous.
9. Although a hippopotamus is a vegetarian, they will still kill you. Therefore, mom is right that a hippo will eat you up and a hippo is not an appropriate Christmas gift.
10. In the rainforest, where insects are plentiful, there are certain spores that can give insects brain diseases. When this happens to ants, the rest of the ants take the affected ant friend away to die because when the spore germinates, it can kill off an entire colony. When it germinates, it sends a plant looking thing through the ant's head and it slowly goes crazy and dies. The more plentiful an insect species, the more likely a spore will attack that particular species. I wonder if all species take their sick away to die? Is that practical, or sad? Do ants have feelings? Unfortunately, each fun fact I discover only creates more questions.
I hope that you have enjoyed these fun facts although they are, unfortunately, completely worthless, and will probably never even give you a dramatic and decisive win while you watch Jeopardy on the couch with your friends. Probably you will never even have cause to mention them in general conversation unless, of course, you decide to write a blog about any or all of them and I certainly wouldn't judge you if you did.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Good Riddance, Clinic
It has been awhile since my last post, mostly because I have a serious and potentially long-term case of blogger's block. I seem to be unable to think of anything worthwhile to say and, for that reason, I have decided that it is better to say nothing than to ramble on meaninglessly.
But then I remembered that I forgot to mention that I decided to drop clinic. Of course, it's not exactly like everyone was waiting with baited breath to see what I was going to do, but the reason I started this blog initially was because I was so frustrated with it and wanted to have an outlet for it. It was a pretty difficult experience. Looking back, I know that some of it was my fault. Still, though, the supervisors were pretty difficult. The one that I liked was almost never in her office, didn't practice family law and could never give us any advice, other than to tell us to go to talk to the other supervisor, and never did the things she said she was going to do. The mean supervisors, the one I referred to as Professor Umbridge, was also unhelpful--she would give us fifteen directions to go look in, but all of them always turned out to be completely unhelpful. On the night before our first hearing, she mentioned several hours worth of stuff that she wanted us to look up--all of which I tried to explain was not what we needed to be looking at (it was a statute that said that if a kid had been in foster care for 15 out of the last 22 months, the department had to move for termination of parental rights--(1) these kids had not been in foster care that long, and (2) we were representing the mother, we didn't WANT to move for termination!!). Luckily, by then we knew better than to listen to her, and we didn't do it. Our hearing lasted like 10 minutes. Funny how no one could tell us something important like THAT. Like, don't spend weeks on developing good oral argument---because only one of you will get a chance to talk at all and you won't get to talk more than 3 minutes. That would have been helpful. But no. No one told us anything useful.
I enjoyed working on that case, though, and even though our supervisors were profoundly uninteresting and unhelpful, my partner and I made it through and reunited a family, at least partially. Our other client was another story entirely. She was the most difficult woman I had ever met. She emailed 6 or 8 times a day, with a bunch of different things she was telling us to do. Unfortunately for her, that's not really the way a lawyer-client relationship works. You don't say "File this complaint and this complaint and this complaint"---your lawyer strategizes with you on your behalf. Of course, a client's opinion and concerns definitely come into play, but it is not for the client to tell the lawyer what to do, especially when the rules governing these kinds of complaints specifically forbid us to do what she was asking. We tried to explain, but were unsuccessful. In the end, it was mostly my desire never to work with her again that made me decide to quit. You may think that's a bit drastic, but if you had met this bat shit crazy lady, you would understand. Besides, I know that our supervisors will dump more and more ridiculous assignments on us at the last minute, with no regard to our other school work, and I'm tired of all my other classes taking the backseat. Last semester, I had 7 credit hours of clinic, and 9 hours of everything else---and the 7 governed everything else. That can't happen again. I need to be able to focus on my other work and get good grades in everything. I need to do what needs to be done, without regard for what my supervisor will say if I tell her that tonight, I really do need to do my homework for a particular class. (BTW--she will say that's not even C level work.)
All in all, I feel like I've made the right decision and I am looking forward to a simpler time, a happier time, when there's no nasty client sending 100 emails a day that I can never answer fast enough, when there's not emails in my inbox from supervisors that make me feel panicked because there's not enough time in the day to do all the things I know they'll ask me to do, when I can do all my work for all my classes without anyone telling me what order to do them in or giving disproportionate weight to one class to the detriment of all the others, to a time where I can leave to go home for the weekend and not worry about what I might be missing, not worry about my clinic partner being mad at me, not feel like I can't possibly go to the gym because I might get a hateful email in the mean time.... It's my last semester in law school, and I'd like it to be a happier one than the fall semester. Here's hoping.
But then I remembered that I forgot to mention that I decided to drop clinic. Of course, it's not exactly like everyone was waiting with baited breath to see what I was going to do, but the reason I started this blog initially was because I was so frustrated with it and wanted to have an outlet for it. It was a pretty difficult experience. Looking back, I know that some of it was my fault. Still, though, the supervisors were pretty difficult. The one that I liked was almost never in her office, didn't practice family law and could never give us any advice, other than to tell us to go to talk to the other supervisor, and never did the things she said she was going to do. The mean supervisors, the one I referred to as Professor Umbridge, was also unhelpful--she would give us fifteen directions to go look in, but all of them always turned out to be completely unhelpful. On the night before our first hearing, she mentioned several hours worth of stuff that she wanted us to look up--all of which I tried to explain was not what we needed to be looking at (it was a statute that said that if a kid had been in foster care for 15 out of the last 22 months, the department had to move for termination of parental rights--(1) these kids had not been in foster care that long, and (2) we were representing the mother, we didn't WANT to move for termination!!). Luckily, by then we knew better than to listen to her, and we didn't do it. Our hearing lasted like 10 minutes. Funny how no one could tell us something important like THAT. Like, don't spend weeks on developing good oral argument---because only one of you will get a chance to talk at all and you won't get to talk more than 3 minutes. That would have been helpful. But no. No one told us anything useful.
I enjoyed working on that case, though, and even though our supervisors were profoundly uninteresting and unhelpful, my partner and I made it through and reunited a family, at least partially. Our other client was another story entirely. She was the most difficult woman I had ever met. She emailed 6 or 8 times a day, with a bunch of different things she was telling us to do. Unfortunately for her, that's not really the way a lawyer-client relationship works. You don't say "File this complaint and this complaint and this complaint"---your lawyer strategizes with you on your behalf. Of course, a client's opinion and concerns definitely come into play, but it is not for the client to tell the lawyer what to do, especially when the rules governing these kinds of complaints specifically forbid us to do what she was asking. We tried to explain, but were unsuccessful. In the end, it was mostly my desire never to work with her again that made me decide to quit. You may think that's a bit drastic, but if you had met this bat shit crazy lady, you would understand. Besides, I know that our supervisors will dump more and more ridiculous assignments on us at the last minute, with no regard to our other school work, and I'm tired of all my other classes taking the backseat. Last semester, I had 7 credit hours of clinic, and 9 hours of everything else---and the 7 governed everything else. That can't happen again. I need to be able to focus on my other work and get good grades in everything. I need to do what needs to be done, without regard for what my supervisor will say if I tell her that tonight, I really do need to do my homework for a particular class. (BTW--she will say that's not even C level work.)
All in all, I feel like I've made the right decision and I am looking forward to a simpler time, a happier time, when there's no nasty client sending 100 emails a day that I can never answer fast enough, when there's not emails in my inbox from supervisors that make me feel panicked because there's not enough time in the day to do all the things I know they'll ask me to do, when I can do all my work for all my classes without anyone telling me what order to do them in or giving disproportionate weight to one class to the detriment of all the others, to a time where I can leave to go home for the weekend and not worry about what I might be missing, not worry about my clinic partner being mad at me, not feel like I can't possibly go to the gym because I might get a hateful email in the mean time.... It's my last semester in law school, and I'd like it to be a happier one than the fall semester. Here's hoping.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Ahhh, Sweatpants
Another finals week is here, much to my chagrin and delight. Finals week (which is actually a bit of a misnomer, considering finals week lasts two weeks here) comes with its own difficulties and frustrations, not to mention exceptionally long periods of time where I do nothing but sit and read or write. It also comes, however, with a number of creature comforts that, I have to admit, I enjoy immensely. For one thing, showers are entirely optional. No one coming up to the school at all hours to study is perfectly coiffed, so I need not be. It is entirely likely that the only person I will see is the one dude shamelessly sleeping on the couch in the student lounge, mouth wide open and first year casebooks strewn wildly around him.
Secondly, sweatpants are pretty much mandatory. As are sweatshirts and fuzzy socks. During spring finals, I study outside, scantily clad, in the hopes of tempting an early tan to develop on my West Virginia winter skin. During the winter, however, I huddle up on my couch with hot chocolate and furry fleece blankets, watching the snow outside my window. Even though I feel some impending doom over my upcoming final, mostly I feel a sense of well-being that only snow and holidays can provide. This is my favorite way to enjoy snow. When it is outside and I am not. I also recently put my electric blanket on my bed, which makes me look forward to the time I spend in it much, much more than at any other time during the year.
Third, I have a fair bit of time where I am procrastinating to do a number of things, including (1) online shopping, (2) facebook stalking, and (3) movie watching. It's funny how, when I own a movie, I don't care to watch it but, when it comes on TV, I pretty much want to stop the world to watch it. Also, I recently got HBO, which has changed my TV viewing experience forever. The one thing I would change is to add a few commercials, though. Less than a regular network, like TBS, which has a commercial every five seconds. But still, enough that I can take time to go pee every so often (because I drink so much Coke Zero that I always have to pee). I also enjoy Harry Potter on ABC family because it includes scenes that are not in my DVD...and I have to know everything that has ever happened to Harry.
I also very much enjoy the triumphant feeling that I get when I walk out of a final (and out of a class) forever. Nothing else really compares. So, even though I have to take a lot of exams, and some of them are very, very, depressingly long, I still have a number of pursuits that take up my time and make me quite happy.
Today, I took my final for business organizations, a four credit hour class that has tested the limit of my abilities. Having never before taken a business-related class, and with no knowledge of corporations or securities or insider trading, it was almost entirely new information. Still, I feel like I have very successfully made it through the class and am anticipating (at least) a B. I think I deserve that, and I'm reasonably sure that I did well enough on my exam to secure at least that. It's funny how much the rest of the semester doesn't matter at all, and your final grade really depends on how you do in five short hours and ten essay questions. Still, I am up to the challenge, I think. And at least, if I have to face it, I can wear the comfiest clothes I own. Bring it on, Family Law. Bring it on.
Secondly, sweatpants are pretty much mandatory. As are sweatshirts and fuzzy socks. During spring finals, I study outside, scantily clad, in the hopes of tempting an early tan to develop on my West Virginia winter skin. During the winter, however, I huddle up on my couch with hot chocolate and furry fleece blankets, watching the snow outside my window. Even though I feel some impending doom over my upcoming final, mostly I feel a sense of well-being that only snow and holidays can provide. This is my favorite way to enjoy snow. When it is outside and I am not. I also recently put my electric blanket on my bed, which makes me look forward to the time I spend in it much, much more than at any other time during the year.
Third, I have a fair bit of time where I am procrastinating to do a number of things, including (1) online shopping, (2) facebook stalking, and (3) movie watching. It's funny how, when I own a movie, I don't care to watch it but, when it comes on TV, I pretty much want to stop the world to watch it. Also, I recently got HBO, which has changed my TV viewing experience forever. The one thing I would change is to add a few commercials, though. Less than a regular network, like TBS, which has a commercial every five seconds. But still, enough that I can take time to go pee every so often (because I drink so much Coke Zero that I always have to pee). I also enjoy Harry Potter on ABC family because it includes scenes that are not in my DVD...and I have to know everything that has ever happened to Harry.
I also very much enjoy the triumphant feeling that I get when I walk out of a final (and out of a class) forever. Nothing else really compares. So, even though I have to take a lot of exams, and some of them are very, very, depressingly long, I still have a number of pursuits that take up my time and make me quite happy.
Today, I took my final for business organizations, a four credit hour class that has tested the limit of my abilities. Having never before taken a business-related class, and with no knowledge of corporations or securities or insider trading, it was almost entirely new information. Still, I feel like I have very successfully made it through the class and am anticipating (at least) a B. I think I deserve that, and I'm reasonably sure that I did well enough on my exam to secure at least that. It's funny how much the rest of the semester doesn't matter at all, and your final grade really depends on how you do in five short hours and ten essay questions. Still, I am up to the challenge, I think. And at least, if I have to face it, I can wear the comfiest clothes I own. Bring it on, Family Law. Bring it on.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A Multitude of Turn Offs
A few months ago, my roommate/sorority sister/best friend told me that she disqualified a guy from her list of potential lifetime lovers because he used entirely too many emoticons when texting. At the time, I thought, "how silly," but, upon further reflection, I have been forced to admit that I, too, have disqualified an otherwise perfectly well qualified candidate. I can see how annoying that would get. ;-) I must have forgotten, since I have now been dating Andy for close to two years. :-0 I have to wonder, though: If Andy had displayed any of the following qualities, would I have disqualified him, too?
Here is a (non-exhaustive, because, lets face it, in the ten or so years that I have had boyfriends, I have disqualified boys for a number of legitimate and a number of completely ridiculous reasons) list of the things that automatically disqualify you from becoming a boyfriend candidate. In my list at least.
1. The use of entirely too many exclamation points. I know, I know, you may say, "doesn't that sound quite like what your friend did?" And you would be right. I once disqualified a guy because he used approximately three to seven exclamation points after every single thing he said. If you don't believe it's annoying, see what it's like when you put it after everything you say!!!!! Some things just don't warrant exclamation points!!! It's kind of like laughing at your own joke. Not cool. And not boyfriend material. :-(
2. Preaching to me. I am entirely capable of finding my own religion, thank you very much. I once had a boy who gave me SEVERAL Jesus themed-cards, calendars and refrigerator magnets. Thank you, but no. Return them to Heaven and Earth immediately, along with the his and hers WWJD bracelets. I appreciate the thought, but, really, you shouldn't have.
3. Using weird words. For example, "glorious," and "splendid," at inopportune moments. Although this seemed a very serious infraction to me at the time, I probably disqualified the most qualified candidate for husbandship that I have ever dated based on this exclusionary rule. Sometimes, it is true, rules fail you. Sometimes, a few years down the line, you start to think...maybe saying "glorious," in a weird voice and doing a little hula dance isn't that bad. But, then, you think...what if he did it in public? And you remember. Rules exist for a reason.
4. Curly chest hair and/or excessive body hair. The existence of chest hair in many instances is, in fact, preferred. It's rugged and manly and sexy. When your chest hair looks like pubes, though, it is a turn off. Also, I prefer to date boys and not grizzly bears. It is unattractive, and a gene that I am not interested in passing down to my future children, particularly if I am destined to have daughters. When you shed more than my Labrador retriever, we have problems, and I will bid you adieu.
5. Excessive sweating. Don't drip on me, please. I understand that many men have a condition that causes them to sweat more than a girl would. This is not the problem I'm discussing. I am talking about so much sweating that your shirt constantly sticks to your back or you have pit stains when we're trying to build a snowman.
6. Oddly shaped feet and/or toenails. No more explanation necessary.
7. Poor grammar. As an English major, I understand that grammar and spelling are not the be-all, end-all. I, for example, like to make up words (for example: husbandship, as evidenced in point number 3) and use entirely too many commas. I do not think that this is an example of poor grammar, however. I enjoy commas and think that they are the spice of writing. And interesting that spice rhymes with splice. Well, I do not mind an occasional comma splice or two. Or fifteen. What I do mind is people who don't know the difference between "there" and "their," or "your," and "you're," or "to" and "too." I also mind people who write, text, or instant message using words like "ur," "bcuz," "l8r," or "ROFLMAO." Unfortunately, this rule has disqualified many a man so I can't even give you a single example of how this has played out because it has happened so many times that I have quite lost track. But, I assure you, if at any time I become single again in the future (God forbid!), I will still disqualify a boy without hesitation based on this most important of rules.
Like I said, this list is non-exhaustive. Of course, I also exclude on the basis of (1) long-term unemployment, (2) the existence of children (no baby mama drama, please), and (3) poor dental hygiene, but who doesn't? Anyway, I guess we all have a bottom line and this is mine.
Here is a (non-exhaustive, because, lets face it, in the ten or so years that I have had boyfriends, I have disqualified boys for a number of legitimate and a number of completely ridiculous reasons) list of the things that automatically disqualify you from becoming a boyfriend candidate. In my list at least.
1. The use of entirely too many exclamation points. I know, I know, you may say, "doesn't that sound quite like what your friend did?" And you would be right. I once disqualified a guy because he used approximately three to seven exclamation points after every single thing he said. If you don't believe it's annoying, see what it's like when you put it after everything you say!!!!! Some things just don't warrant exclamation points!!! It's kind of like laughing at your own joke. Not cool. And not boyfriend material. :-(
2. Preaching to me. I am entirely capable of finding my own religion, thank you very much. I once had a boy who gave me SEVERAL Jesus themed-cards, calendars and refrigerator magnets. Thank you, but no. Return them to Heaven and Earth immediately, along with the his and hers WWJD bracelets. I appreciate the thought, but, really, you shouldn't have.
3. Using weird words. For example, "glorious," and "splendid," at inopportune moments. Although this seemed a very serious infraction to me at the time, I probably disqualified the most qualified candidate for husbandship that I have ever dated based on this exclusionary rule. Sometimes, it is true, rules fail you. Sometimes, a few years down the line, you start to think...maybe saying "glorious," in a weird voice and doing a little hula dance isn't that bad. But, then, you think...what if he did it in public? And you remember. Rules exist for a reason.
4. Curly chest hair and/or excessive body hair. The existence of chest hair in many instances is, in fact, preferred. It's rugged and manly and sexy. When your chest hair looks like pubes, though, it is a turn off. Also, I prefer to date boys and not grizzly bears. It is unattractive, and a gene that I am not interested in passing down to my future children, particularly if I am destined to have daughters. When you shed more than my Labrador retriever, we have problems, and I will bid you adieu.
5. Excessive sweating. Don't drip on me, please. I understand that many men have a condition that causes them to sweat more than a girl would. This is not the problem I'm discussing. I am talking about so much sweating that your shirt constantly sticks to your back or you have pit stains when we're trying to build a snowman.
6. Oddly shaped feet and/or toenails. No more explanation necessary.
7. Poor grammar. As an English major, I understand that grammar and spelling are not the be-all, end-all. I, for example, like to make up words (for example: husbandship, as evidenced in point number 3) and use entirely too many commas. I do not think that this is an example of poor grammar, however. I enjoy commas and think that they are the spice of writing. And interesting that spice rhymes with splice. Well, I do not mind an occasional comma splice or two. Or fifteen. What I do mind is people who don't know the difference between "there" and "their," or "your," and "you're," or "to" and "too." I also mind people who write, text, or instant message using words like "ur," "bcuz," "l8r," or "ROFLMAO." Unfortunately, this rule has disqualified many a man so I can't even give you a single example of how this has played out because it has happened so many times that I have quite lost track. But, I assure you, if at any time I become single again in the future (God forbid!), I will still disqualify a boy without hesitation based on this most important of rules.
Like I said, this list is non-exhaustive. Of course, I also exclude on the basis of (1) long-term unemployment, (2) the existence of children (no baby mama drama, please), and (3) poor dental hygiene, but who doesn't? Anyway, I guess we all have a bottom line and this is mine.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Law Students, a Case Study
As a law student myself, I feel I am in a unique position to criticize, analyze, and discuss the oftentimes obnoxious and incomprehensible behaviors and habits of other law students. As a not-so-casual observer in a three year case study, after a full two and a half long, long, years have elapsed, I have to hypothesize that, on the whole, law students suck. This, of course, is just a hypothesis and, it is possible, like all scientific study, that at some point or another, I may be disproven. But, allow me a little latitude to explain what I mean and let's see if you agree with the behavioral study I have undertaken.
For one thing, we (that is, law students) are competitive with each other and, with a few very small exceptions, everyone jealously guards that which they feel will give them the edge over all other law students. Whether that means study guides, late night emails to professors, or outlines from older students, these things are kept to oneself with no regard for anyone else. You think you have an edge? Well, you better keep it away from everyone else. We try to get everyone else to share their secrets with us, all while keeping our secrets close. You know the saying: Keep your friends close, and law students closer. Right? I mean, everyone knows that grades are on a curve and, if you are just able to do better than everyone else, you will get a good grade. So, really, grades aren't testing you against yourself or against the elusive 100% mark, your grade effectively pits you against everyone around you. So, you may be my best friend the rest of the time, but if I have a secret study guide from a student who I know got an A in the class that we are studying for, you're SOL. Friendship, in law school anyway, only goes so far.
We are also all incredibly Type A. We like to be in control of everything, including each other. We are so damn Type A that we Type A each other to death and it is nothing short of exhausting to spend a day in the presence of nothing but other law students. Sometimes, when I get home, I find that I enjoy watching mindless TV (Will and Grace is my fave: more on this later) or reading Cosmo in the bathtub, just to wind down and make my head stop hurting.
Probably the most obnoxious thing of all is that we all think we're right, and we're all already naturally argumentative, comfortable with confrontation and public speaking. So, if we have a silly little thought in our silly little heads, you're bound to hear about it. Also, as a matter of course, you are wrong. We don't generally listen to each other, but continue on in the happy assumption that whatever occurs to us is obviously right. We also like to offer these opinions at inopportune moments, including during class lectures. Every class has a person (or two or fifteen) who, when he (or she) raises his hand, the whole rest of the class cringes. What we don't generally acknowledge to each other is that we really don't want to hear anything that any of our classmates have to say, regardless of whether or not the person saying it is one of the people who induces dramatic eye-rolling with every self-absorbed syllable. When talking to non-law students, we frequently find ourselves frustrated with their lack of legal knowledge. And, after all, as far as we're concerned, legal knowledge is practically the only type of knowledge worth having, so the lack of knowledge is deplorable. (And, in our defense, I guess we SHOULD think that knowledge that we spent $100,000 to procure is somehow important and worth knowing.) We are unjustifiably baffled that there are people who don't know what 10(b)(6) is or what a class called "civil procedures" entails. We, the self-proclaimed enlightened ones, have to explain simple concepts, like that the bar is a two day long, six hour per day process that involves both a multi-state and a state-specific portion, but that we also have to pass the MPRE which tests legal ethics and also pass state-mandated character and fitness requirements. Simple stuff. Obviously. I mean, who DOESN'T know that? And you thought talking to a brick wall was diffcult. But you have a similar experience when you talk to a law student.
As a law student myself, I do feel uniquely situated to discuss law students as a whole. Who better to look in an unbiased way at a group of people to analyze their idiosyncrasies than a person who is a member of that group? I admit, I share some of these qualities: I am inclined to think that my opinion is the right one, and I am certainly incredibly Type A (just take a look at my planner, which goes everywhere with me, and you will know that). I also like to be in control (which means that I am less than stellar at group work of any kind and infinitely prefer to do things my own way). I talk loudly and freely, and sometimes (okay, well, a lot of times) that gets me into trouble. Sometimes I thought that it would behoove me to be more like my best friend/sorority sister/college roommate and just get along with people, to be friendly and easy going and generally hilarious, but, unfortunately, hilarity is not in my nature and neither is permanent friendliness. Sure, I'm easy enough to get along with for the majority of the people in my life, but there is a line that you can never push me past and, once I perceive that I have been slighted, I am not quick to forgive. Am I Mr. Darcy? It sure sounds like it. Hopefully Andy is my Elizabeth (but don't tell him that, he won't take too kindly to being called Elizabeth--only Jack McFarland gets away with stuff like that). Well, we all have flaws. I never said I didn't. But mine are certainly exacerbated by the two and a half years I have spent around nothing but people like myself.
As a demographic, law students are probably some of the most obnoxious and tiresome people on the planet. And the worst part? Many of us have no idea. Trust me, I know: I am a law student.
For one thing, we (that is, law students) are competitive with each other and, with a few very small exceptions, everyone jealously guards that which they feel will give them the edge over all other law students. Whether that means study guides, late night emails to professors, or outlines from older students, these things are kept to oneself with no regard for anyone else. You think you have an edge? Well, you better keep it away from everyone else. We try to get everyone else to share their secrets with us, all while keeping our secrets close. You know the saying: Keep your friends close, and law students closer. Right? I mean, everyone knows that grades are on a curve and, if you are just able to do better than everyone else, you will get a good grade. So, really, grades aren't testing you against yourself or against the elusive 100% mark, your grade effectively pits you against everyone around you. So, you may be my best friend the rest of the time, but if I have a secret study guide from a student who I know got an A in the class that we are studying for, you're SOL. Friendship, in law school anyway, only goes so far.
We are also all incredibly Type A. We like to be in control of everything, including each other. We are so damn Type A that we Type A each other to death and it is nothing short of exhausting to spend a day in the presence of nothing but other law students. Sometimes, when I get home, I find that I enjoy watching mindless TV (Will and Grace is my fave: more on this later) or reading Cosmo in the bathtub, just to wind down and make my head stop hurting.
Probably the most obnoxious thing of all is that we all think we're right, and we're all already naturally argumentative, comfortable with confrontation and public speaking. So, if we have a silly little thought in our silly little heads, you're bound to hear about it. Also, as a matter of course, you are wrong. We don't generally listen to each other, but continue on in the happy assumption that whatever occurs to us is obviously right. We also like to offer these opinions at inopportune moments, including during class lectures. Every class has a person (or two or fifteen) who, when he (or she) raises his hand, the whole rest of the class cringes. What we don't generally acknowledge to each other is that we really don't want to hear anything that any of our classmates have to say, regardless of whether or not the person saying it is one of the people who induces dramatic eye-rolling with every self-absorbed syllable. When talking to non-law students, we frequently find ourselves frustrated with their lack of legal knowledge. And, after all, as far as we're concerned, legal knowledge is practically the only type of knowledge worth having, so the lack of knowledge is deplorable. (And, in our defense, I guess we SHOULD think that knowledge that we spent $100,000 to procure is somehow important and worth knowing.) We are unjustifiably baffled that there are people who don't know what 10(b)(6) is or what a class called "civil procedures" entails. We, the self-proclaimed enlightened ones, have to explain simple concepts, like that the bar is a two day long, six hour per day process that involves both a multi-state and a state-specific portion, but that we also have to pass the MPRE which tests legal ethics and also pass state-mandated character and fitness requirements. Simple stuff. Obviously. I mean, who DOESN'T know that? And you thought talking to a brick wall was diffcult. But you have a similar experience when you talk to a law student.
As a law student myself, I do feel uniquely situated to discuss law students as a whole. Who better to look in an unbiased way at a group of people to analyze their idiosyncrasies than a person who is a member of that group? I admit, I share some of these qualities: I am inclined to think that my opinion is the right one, and I am certainly incredibly Type A (just take a look at my planner, which goes everywhere with me, and you will know that). I also like to be in control (which means that I am less than stellar at group work of any kind and infinitely prefer to do things my own way). I talk loudly and freely, and sometimes (okay, well, a lot of times) that gets me into trouble. Sometimes I thought that it would behoove me to be more like my best friend/sorority sister/college roommate and just get along with people, to be friendly and easy going and generally hilarious, but, unfortunately, hilarity is not in my nature and neither is permanent friendliness. Sure, I'm easy enough to get along with for the majority of the people in my life, but there is a line that you can never push me past and, once I perceive that I have been slighted, I am not quick to forgive. Am I Mr. Darcy? It sure sounds like it. Hopefully Andy is my Elizabeth (but don't tell him that, he won't take too kindly to being called Elizabeth--only Jack McFarland gets away with stuff like that). Well, we all have flaws. I never said I didn't. But mine are certainly exacerbated by the two and a half years I have spent around nothing but people like myself.
As a demographic, law students are probably some of the most obnoxious and tiresome people on the planet. And the worst part? Many of us have no idea. Trust me, I know: I am a law student.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Superhero Status*
Watching the Incredibles, I learned that superheroes shouldn't have capes. Capes are an occupational hazard that can lead to traumatic consequences. However, now that I have reached superhero status in my own personal life, I have to admit, a cape seems like a necessary accoutrement. If I were a superhero with an outfit appropriate to my station in life, I think I would still choose to have a cape. Also, I would like thigh high boots, and lots of spandex.
As a matter of fact, after my day today, lady suits and high heels seem somehow anti-climactic. Why, you ask? Well, I had my first real hearing today. Okay, so it lasted less than 30 minutes and I only spoke very briefly. In fact, I did much more talking with the other lawyers in the hallway before the hearing than I did in the actual hearing which, as it turns out, has a lot to do with how law is practiced in real life. Still, I stood up, in front of a judge, and asked for something. And I got it. The fact is, that as a result of my involvement in this particular case, at this very moment, a little girl is at home with her mother after 377 days in foster care. There is still one more child who has not yet been returned to her mother but, because of my speech to the judge this morning, she will have more contact with her mother than she has been allowed to have before. I have to say, I feel like a major success.
I did have a new outfit. I have to admit, I looked pretty awesome. Thanks to TJ (Maxx, that is), I had a brand new lady suit. Still, I feel the more appropriate way to dress a world-changing dynamo like myself is in figure-flattering spandex and thigh highs. And whether or not a cape is an occupational hazard for people who are swinging from buildings and saving people from crimes, I think that, in my particular circumstance, it is appropriate. I just go from courtroom to courtroom, reuniting families and generally changing this sad, sad world for the better. Today, when I stood up and asked the judge to return a child home to her mother and to ensure the well-being and eventual return of the second child, I changed the world. Because of me, because of all the hard work I did and the fourteen hour days I put in to prepare for this, a family is much more whole than it has been for more than a year. And hopefully they will have the tools to deal with each other better than ever, and they will thrive. I have to say, I feel like I definitely had a role in making things better for all of the people involved. And I need a costume that reflects my new-found role in the world. Maybe if the costume had a little glitter, too. I like glitter.
*Disclaimer: Although I am telling this story from my own perspective and this narrative centers around my role in these proceedings, I do not wish to cause offense to any of the other people who were involved in making this hearing successful. I have a clinic partner and a supervising attorney, all of whom worked very hard in this hearing and made the end result possible. As I have mentioned before, blogs (as well as Facebook, MySpace and Twitter and any other internet networking source) are inherently vain, self-absorbed things and I do not mean to infer that I was the only person working on this case although, admittedly, I do spend the majority of my time focusing on myself. Just to be clear.
As a matter of fact, after my day today, lady suits and high heels seem somehow anti-climactic. Why, you ask? Well, I had my first real hearing today. Okay, so it lasted less than 30 minutes and I only spoke very briefly. In fact, I did much more talking with the other lawyers in the hallway before the hearing than I did in the actual hearing which, as it turns out, has a lot to do with how law is practiced in real life. Still, I stood up, in front of a judge, and asked for something. And I got it. The fact is, that as a result of my involvement in this particular case, at this very moment, a little girl is at home with her mother after 377 days in foster care. There is still one more child who has not yet been returned to her mother but, because of my speech to the judge this morning, she will have more contact with her mother than she has been allowed to have before. I have to say, I feel like a major success.
I did have a new outfit. I have to admit, I looked pretty awesome. Thanks to TJ (Maxx, that is), I had a brand new lady suit. Still, I feel the more appropriate way to dress a world-changing dynamo like myself is in figure-flattering spandex and thigh highs. And whether or not a cape is an occupational hazard for people who are swinging from buildings and saving people from crimes, I think that, in my particular circumstance, it is appropriate. I just go from courtroom to courtroom, reuniting families and generally changing this sad, sad world for the better. Today, when I stood up and asked the judge to return a child home to her mother and to ensure the well-being and eventual return of the second child, I changed the world. Because of me, because of all the hard work I did and the fourteen hour days I put in to prepare for this, a family is much more whole than it has been for more than a year. And hopefully they will have the tools to deal with each other better than ever, and they will thrive. I have to say, I feel like I definitely had a role in making things better for all of the people involved. And I need a costume that reflects my new-found role in the world. Maybe if the costume had a little glitter, too. I like glitter.
*Disclaimer: Although I am telling this story from my own perspective and this narrative centers around my role in these proceedings, I do not wish to cause offense to any of the other people who were involved in making this hearing successful. I have a clinic partner and a supervising attorney, all of whom worked very hard in this hearing and made the end result possible. As I have mentioned before, blogs (as well as Facebook, MySpace and Twitter and any other internet networking source) are inherently vain, self-absorbed things and I do not mean to infer that I was the only person working on this case although, admittedly, I do spend the majority of my time focusing on myself. Just to be clear.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Eleventh Commandment
When I flip through other people's blogs (as I sometimes do) I notice that many of them revolve around two main themes: (1) religion, and (2) families. It seems like pretty much every single blog has to do with one of these two things. Although I love family photos in matching Ralph Lauren polos and two golden retrievers as much as the next person and am waiting with baited breath to hear about the family trip to pick this year's Christmas tree, I am not in the family way. I am also not going to turn my writings into a Bible study of sorts. If you are into either of these things, this blog is not for you. If you click "next blog," you will quickly and effortlessly be transported (most likely) to another blog full of religion and family outings. If, however, as I suspect, there is a market for the non-religious, non-familial blog post, please, read on. I do apologize, though. Although this blog (fortunately, in my opinion) is neither of these two things although, for a few moments, I will discuss a little a bit of Southern theology, courtesy of my enlightened grandfather (who, it must be said, graduated in the top ten of his high school class--which would be a remarkable feat if there had not been only nine people in the class to begin with).
On Thanksgiving, after a family dinner, which is always full of various stresses anyway, my sister's new husband, Kyle, stood up and cleared her plate as well as his own. This irritated my grandfather, who accused her, among other things, of being a bad wife and a bad Christian. He would get her a Bible and she would see. When she replied that she already had a Bible and that she was perfectly capable of reading and interpreting it on her own, he insisted that the Catholic Bible is different (read: inferior) to the Bible that Baptists read. Unfortunately, this always launches him into a tirade about a specific verse in the Book of Matthew where we are told that we should call no one father except the Father in heaven. He even went so far as to call the priest in his neighborhood Catholic church to ask him about the verse and to tell him that how very wrong he was. My grandfather was surprised to know that the priest had read this verse and that he did not find it particularly troublesome and that, when parishioners called him father, he did not lose any sleep at night over it. My granddad thinks that, because Catholics call their priests "father" that they are all heretics and will die a fiery death. Okay, he didn't go that far--but he did say that we don't know how to read our Bibles. If we did, we could see that, as everyone else knows, that it was written down thousands of years ago in the Good Book that a wife must always pick up after her husband. On this point he was most adamant. The Bible says so. Even though my grandmother (a very sensible but somewhat cold woman) told him that she had read the Bible, too and that she had seen nowhere that a wife was required to clean up after her husband. Of course, I know that my grandfather is wise and all-knowing and that, somewhere in the Bible, there must be a passage that reads that "Thy wife shalt clean up thy husband's dinner dishes." Moses probably chiseled it onto the back of the stone tablet where he wrote the other ten commandments. Either that, or God spoke it out of the burning bush, or wrote it in the sky when he parted the sea. It seems to be an important enough point that any or all of these things are equally likely. Thank goodness my granddad told me.
On Thanksgiving, after a family dinner, which is always full of various stresses anyway, my sister's new husband, Kyle, stood up and cleared her plate as well as his own. This irritated my grandfather, who accused her, among other things, of being a bad wife and a bad Christian. He would get her a Bible and she would see. When she replied that she already had a Bible and that she was perfectly capable of reading and interpreting it on her own, he insisted that the Catholic Bible is different (read: inferior) to the Bible that Baptists read. Unfortunately, this always launches him into a tirade about a specific verse in the Book of Matthew where we are told that we should call no one father except the Father in heaven. He even went so far as to call the priest in his neighborhood Catholic church to ask him about the verse and to tell him that how very wrong he was. My grandfather was surprised to know that the priest had read this verse and that he did not find it particularly troublesome and that, when parishioners called him father, he did not lose any sleep at night over it. My granddad thinks that, because Catholics call their priests "father" that they are all heretics and will die a fiery death. Okay, he didn't go that far--but he did say that we don't know how to read our Bibles. If we did, we could see that, as everyone else knows, that it was written down thousands of years ago in the Good Book that a wife must always pick up after her husband. On this point he was most adamant. The Bible says so. Even though my grandmother (a very sensible but somewhat cold woman) told him that she had read the Bible, too and that she had seen nowhere that a wife was required to clean up after her husband. Of course, I know that my grandfather is wise and all-knowing and that, somewhere in the Bible, there must be a passage that reads that "Thy wife shalt clean up thy husband's dinner dishes." Moses probably chiseled it onto the back of the stone tablet where he wrote the other ten commandments. Either that, or God spoke it out of the burning bush, or wrote it in the sky when he parted the sea. It seems to be an important enough point that any or all of these things are equally likely. Thank goodness my granddad told me.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Five Minute Feminist
For the record, I just want to say that I am not a feminist in any form or fashion and, generally speaking, I regard the mere word—feminist--with a shudder. It seems almost dirty. It puts me in mind of scary he-women who stomp angrily around the earth with a permanent chip on their shoulders and talk a lot about how much they hate men. Some even hate sex. Believe me, I am not one of these people.
In fact, I grew up in a family with traditional gender roles—and I like it. Generally speaking, my parents have two fights. I will recount them for you, in all their gory details, here.
1. Let it first be said that my dad very much enjoys power tools. And tractors. And my mother really likes her garden. It is a fight that brings my mother to tears almost every year when my dad takes the chainsaw to her crepe myrtle.
2. My mom does the cooking and cleaning, including washing the dishes. Sometimes, though, women and machinery—like garbage disposals—do not mix. Every so often, my mom gets something stuck in the garbage disposal, and my daddy has to come fix it. “God damn it, Amy,” he always says. Which, I have to admit, is a nice change from “God damn it, Katie,” which he says much more frequently.
Traditional gender roles have dominated my life. As a born and bred southerner, I like these things and take pride in ritual. I look forward to having and raising children, and fully expect to host a number of dinner parties and Thanksgiving dinners for family and friends. I don’t care for manual labor and expect to be exempted from these tasks.
That being said, I am an educated person. I am going to be, if not the primary breadwinner in my future family, a major part of it. I don’t have anything against stay-at-home mommyhood (and, if it was an option for me, I’m not sure I wouldn’t jump on the opportunity), but I fully expect to work for a living.
Also, I hunt and fish with the best of them. Which brings me to the problem I’m going to address today. On Friday, I went hunting with Andy at some old family property near home. My granddad owns quite a bit of land, inherited from distant property-owning relatives, and he, the founder of the family business, believes strongly in hunting and fishing---and in his granddaughter’s access to hunting and fishing. I was hunting at one piece of property, near a big, beautiful oak tree that I have dubbed Grandmother Willow (I am well aware, of course, that she is NOT a willow), and Andy was hunting a few miles down the road at my great-great grandmother’s property. I got in my stand at like 12:30, and sat all afternoon without seeing much more than mosquitoes, several choice specimens of the elusive gray squirrel species, and three turkeys. I wasn’t discouraged, though. I knew that things would just get better and I had a good amount of faith in my spot and the set up of my stand. Around 3:30, I knew things were just getting good, so I stayed really still, my excitement mounting with every passing minute.
Just after 4:00, I heard a lot of rustling. That’s weird, I thought. It’s not a squirrel. Definitely not a deer. What on earth could be making all that noise? Within a couple minutes, I saw the rough silhouette of something I have never before seen walking through the woods: a trespasser. Without a moment’s hesitation, I set down my bow, climbed down from my stand, and marched purposefully across the bottom, past Grandmother Willow and up to the stranger. I did not consider at the time the potential dangerousness of marching up to a strange man unarmed and demanding that he leave my property immediately. Hands on my hips, I walked straight up to him and asked, loudly and clearly, “who the hell are you?” He told me that he was the son of a groundskeeper my granddad employs. I told him to leave. Immediately. He was apologetic, but I was furious. I texted Andy, complaining. I knew my hunt was ruined, but I got back up in my stand, hoping that in the last hour or so I had until dark that things would improve and that I might at least see something.
At about 4:50, I hear more un-deerlike rustling. Then I spotted the second trespasser: the groundskeeper himself. He, in full camo, walked right up to MY stand with a rifle (in a non-rifle county before general firearms season opened---completely and totally illegal—not to mention the trespassing and attempting to hunt in MY stand). I asked him to leave and he tried to have a conversation with me. Asked if I had seen anything and how long I’d been there. I was so mad I was shaking. Told him to leave, and, finally, he did.
The biggest injustice didn’t happen until the following day, when I called my granddad to tell him about the trespassers, the rifle, and the sheer injustice that they felt that they were entitled to hunt in my own personal stand.
“What are you doing in a tree?” was the first question he asked. I was a little surprised, I wasn’t the one who had done anything wrong, after all. I was where I was supposed to be.
“Hunting,” I told him. I mean, duh.
Granddaddy went on to lecture me about the impropriety of a girl hunting from a stand. After all, he says, you can hunt just as well from a truck in regular clothes. All this camo and tree stands, he told me, was good for business, but, frankly, unnecessary. Especially for a girl like me.
But he didn’t stop there. Not only was it dangerous for silly little me to hunt in a tree (after all, I could fall!), but he also had another beef: Andy was too far away from me. “What would he have done if you had fallen?” he demanded. “Who would have known?”
For one thing, no one would have known regardless. If we had been on the same property, I wouldn’t have been visible to him anyway and, if I had fallen, he wouldn’t have known til he came to get me. I told my granddad as much, but he wasn’t convinced.
Apparently, hunting from trees is acceptable for men—like my dad, my uncle, and my brother---who is four and a half years younger than me. But, for silly little girls like me who just don’t know what they’re doing (and, furthermore, are unable to tell the difference between muzzleloaders and rifles), tree stands are unacceptable.
This isn’t about hunting. This is about me being a young, healthy, physically fit adult who is perfectly capable of doing many of the same things as my male counterparts. I can do all sorts of things. I may not be able to win a logging contest or something, but, let’s face it, what value would THAT have anyway? There's also a relatively large number of things I wouldn't WANT to do--but, if I put my mind to it, I could, and I do not appreciate being told that I can't. It's not like I climbed up trees with spikes in my boots or something. I mean, there was a ladder involved.
Please excuse my rant. I can't help it. I'm not a feminist, but just for a few minutes I wanted to stand up for my I don't appreciate feeling like a silly little goose of a girl who can't do anything that requires any level of skill. I'm not a feminist, but a little girl power is almost always in order. The Spice Girls had it right after all.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Gas Fire, a Memoir
On a Saturday not so very long ago, I went grocery shopping with my mom and got a little inspired in the spice aisle. Frequently this happens to me--it seems like there's a whole world of different tastes out there and, if I can just master the combination of a variety of them, I can come up with some sort of masterful dinner creation that will wow Andy and inspire poetry in him. Or, at the very least, a proposal. Anyway, the curry powder caught my eye and reminded me in general of a summer spent studying abroad and specifically of an afternoon at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, Turkey. Once I was able to pry my sorority sister/best friend/roommate away from a chubby Turkish man encouraging her to "look into my eyes and smell my love tea," I walked past a beautiful display of spices, piled high in huge ceramic pots. The smell is one that I have grown to associate with Turkey--and curry was one of those spices.
My mother, a curry hater, wrinkled her nose when I put it in the cart. But I put it in the cart regardless, determined to master the art of Thai cooking. Andy loves Thai.
I spent the drive back to school the following Monday morning musing about my recent spice inspiration and dreaming up all of the interesting things I could make with it. The possibilities felt intoxicating, and I was eager to put Mitzi, my KitchenAid mixer, to good use. I decided that the first thing I would do would be to make a breader to fry chicken with, just as an introduction to the culinary art that is cooking with curry. As a spice, it was relatively foreign to me--which was part of the mystery and intrigue that I felt whenever I pondered the possibilities. I spent several unproductive clinic hours envisioning what I would use to create my perfect fried curry chicken breader--it would include flour (of course), a little egg, a little milk, some smoked paprika, salt, and some curry powder. I tasted the breader and it seemed pretty good to me. Definitely worth a try. I knew that, like all recipes, you generally have to make them a time or three before you really get the science down. I wasn't swayed. I knew that if I was brave some sort of culinary masterpiece would prevail.
I got my smallest frying pan out, because, lets face it, I wasn't exactly preparing to feed an army. Cursing my crooked burners (they've been that way all along), I put a bit of oil in the bottom of the pan and turned on the burner. While waiting for it to heat up, my phone started to ring. It was Andy--and I never miss a call from Andy if I can help it--so I answered. We were chatting, and I was covering up my chicken with my brilliant breading when I bumped the frying pan.
Big mistake #1.
Because the left side of the burner faced lower than the right side, a little oil sloshed out of the side of the pan. "I'll call you back! I HAVE A FIRE!" were literally the words I screamed at Andy as I hung up on him, and threw the phone down on the counter.
I know you think that, in moments of crisis, you will remember all the things you learned at Girl Scout camp about what to do in emergency situations. Like, what to do if you're being attacked from behind, how not to tip a canoe, what to put on campfire burns. And how to put out grease fires. Of course, as I'm sure you know, and as, I can assure you, I knew, too, you can never, ever, never, I repeat NEVER put water on it. But of course, you won't remember. And I didn't either.
I quickly filled a cup with water and threw it on the fire.
Big mistake #2.
Instantly, I had flames that were about a foot and a half high, reaching from my stove top to the hood. My first thought: Save Betty! (Betty is my little pet bunny. A lot of haters call her "bitch bunny," but I fiercely maintain that she is simply misunderstood.)
My second thought: If if I have to call 911 to get the firefighters out here, my landlord will find out I have a pet.
My third thought: Will I have time to save Walter, my Wii, too?
Luckily, by then, I wised up a little. I threw a kitchen rag over it and turned the burner off. The flames died down and I was able to take a moment to still my rapidly beating little heart. My hands shook. My hair flew in wild spirals around my reddened face. But the fire was out.
I called my mom and, after she did the mom thing and made sure me and my Betty were okay, she told me a story, from which I gleaned two very important details:
1. One Halloween, my dad was the Jolly Green Giant, complete with green paint. If you know my dad, you know that is a very funny piece of information.
2. My parents burned down their farm.
Okay, I exaggerated a BIT on number 2. They did not burn down their WHOLE farm, but they did burn up three acres before the firemen arrived on the weekend after Halloween one year a million years ago when they were in college. When the firemen were talking to my dad, he still had a little bit of green paint on the inside of his ear. That's how number 1 ties in. Anyway, learning about how my very, very careful father set fire to the farm that he bought with the money he earned trapping muskrats in high school and saved until he had enough to buy a farm of his very own made me feel a little bit better about (1) starting a grease fire and (2) trying to put out said grease fire with water. At least I didn't burn three acres. In fact, there was no damage. My frying pan, my oven, my hood, and even my dishtowel survived, completely unscathed.
I baked my curry chicken in the oven instead. It wasn't that great.
My mother, a curry hater, wrinkled her nose when I put it in the cart. But I put it in the cart regardless, determined to master the art of Thai cooking. Andy loves Thai.
I spent the drive back to school the following Monday morning musing about my recent spice inspiration and dreaming up all of the interesting things I could make with it. The possibilities felt intoxicating, and I was eager to put Mitzi, my KitchenAid mixer, to good use. I decided that the first thing I would do would be to make a breader to fry chicken with, just as an introduction to the culinary art that is cooking with curry. As a spice, it was relatively foreign to me--which was part of the mystery and intrigue that I felt whenever I pondered the possibilities. I spent several unproductive clinic hours envisioning what I would use to create my perfect fried curry chicken breader--it would include flour (of course), a little egg, a little milk, some smoked paprika, salt, and some curry powder. I tasted the breader and it seemed pretty good to me. Definitely worth a try. I knew that, like all recipes, you generally have to make them a time or three before you really get the science down. I wasn't swayed. I knew that if I was brave some sort of culinary masterpiece would prevail.
I got my smallest frying pan out, because, lets face it, I wasn't exactly preparing to feed an army. Cursing my crooked burners (they've been that way all along), I put a bit of oil in the bottom of the pan and turned on the burner. While waiting for it to heat up, my phone started to ring. It was Andy--and I never miss a call from Andy if I can help it--so I answered. We were chatting, and I was covering up my chicken with my brilliant breading when I bumped the frying pan.
Big mistake #1.
Because the left side of the burner faced lower than the right side, a little oil sloshed out of the side of the pan. "I'll call you back! I HAVE A FIRE!" were literally the words I screamed at Andy as I hung up on him, and threw the phone down on the counter.
I know you think that, in moments of crisis, you will remember all the things you learned at Girl Scout camp about what to do in emergency situations. Like, what to do if you're being attacked from behind, how not to tip a canoe, what to put on campfire burns. And how to put out grease fires. Of course, as I'm sure you know, and as, I can assure you, I knew, too, you can never, ever, never, I repeat NEVER put water on it. But of course, you won't remember. And I didn't either.
I quickly filled a cup with water and threw it on the fire.
Big mistake #2.
Instantly, I had flames that were about a foot and a half high, reaching from my stove top to the hood. My first thought: Save Betty! (Betty is my little pet bunny. A lot of haters call her "bitch bunny," but I fiercely maintain that she is simply misunderstood.)
My second thought: If if I have to call 911 to get the firefighters out here, my landlord will find out I have a pet.
My third thought: Will I have time to save Walter, my Wii, too?
Luckily, by then, I wised up a little. I threw a kitchen rag over it and turned the burner off. The flames died down and I was able to take a moment to still my rapidly beating little heart. My hands shook. My hair flew in wild spirals around my reddened face. But the fire was out.
I called my mom and, after she did the mom thing and made sure me and my Betty were okay, she told me a story, from which I gleaned two very important details:
1. One Halloween, my dad was the Jolly Green Giant, complete with green paint. If you know my dad, you know that is a very funny piece of information.
2. My parents burned down their farm.
Okay, I exaggerated a BIT on number 2. They did not burn down their WHOLE farm, but they did burn up three acres before the firemen arrived on the weekend after Halloween one year a million years ago when they were in college. When the firemen were talking to my dad, he still had a little bit of green paint on the inside of his ear. That's how number 1 ties in. Anyway, learning about how my very, very careful father set fire to the farm that he bought with the money he earned trapping muskrats in high school and saved until he had enough to buy a farm of his very own made me feel a little bit better about (1) starting a grease fire and (2) trying to put out said grease fire with water. At least I didn't burn three acres. In fact, there was no damage. My frying pan, my oven, my hood, and even my dishtowel survived, completely unscathed.
I baked my curry chicken in the oven instead. It wasn't that great.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Here's Your Sign
I have to say, I really enjoy blogging. Sometimes its really nice to be able to talk freely and unashamedly about nothing but yourself. Although I do try to be witty and to appeal to a non-me audience, I am aware that sometimes I lapse into periods of shameless self pity and dwell on details that are probably uninteresting to anyone but myself. A blog, after all, is necessarily a predominantly selfless act. A blog isn't started to discuss things that are happening to other people, but instead to reflect on the things that have a profound impact on us as individuals. I embrace my inner selfishness every time I write and, I have to admit, I really do look forward to each post. On days when I feel like I have nothing to write, I am disappointed and frequently click the "New Post" link anyway and stare at the blank white page. When I was a kid, I felt the same way about writing stories. I would sit in class, looking down at a blank white sheet of notebook paper, and feel an inexplicable compulsion to fill it with some kind of a story. Today, years and years later, I offer you no self deprecating monologue of the sufferings of a law student. Instead, I provide a (hopefully) amusing anecdote about one of the dumbest people I have heard of since the assistant prosecuting attorney with the 377 parking meter violations. (Although, to be sure, she is a pretty ridiculously stupid person.) My fifth grade self, who was generally engrossed in writing stories about secret words discoverable from under the couch in the living room, and of romances between a character remarkably like myself and a fictional idyll of a boy who was always named Adam, would approve much more of this story-telling function.
First of all, I need to lay a bit of a foundation. I guess to have a complete picture of who I am, you should know that my parents own a business. But my dad isn't your typical business-owner. He certainly doesn't go to work in a shirt and tie. If he did, it would get in the way. A tie, in my dad's case, would be more of an occupational hazard than anything else. Much like how, in the movie the Incredibles, there's that whole discussion of how capes on superheroes are dangerous--so too would a tie be in my dad's situation. Our store sells sporting goods--specifically, for hunting and fishing. And my dad happens to be one of the best archery technicians in the country. (Imagine what would happen if he drew back a bow and his tie got caught!) My grandparents started the business back in 1954, when they dug worms themselves and sold bait and tackle out of the back of their house. Since then, we have developed into a couple of different businesses, but today our biggest business is the sporting goods store. We still sell bait and tackle--and, in fact, we are one of the largest wholesalers of bloodworms on the east coast. So, basically, I am an heiress much like Paris Hilton. See the resemblance?
Anyway, back to my story. Last night, my parents got a call from the police that the alarm was going off at the store. My dad rushed in like a superhero to see what all the trouble was about. When he got there, he learned that around midnight last night a woman was driving downtown. As I'm sure you guessed, she is not a fine upstanding woman of strong moral fiber. No, instead she is the type who eschews sobriety and responsibility in general, in favor of a looser lifestyle. She, while out for a late nightcap, was speeding negligently down the street that our store is on, crossed two lanes of traffic, went over the median, crossed two more lanes of traffic and struck a car, going the opposite direction. The man driving the car was thrown headfirst across our parking lot, where he crashed into our chain link fence, tore it down, and landed in our boat yard where we have several stacks of jon boats. The force of the accident caused Mr. Innocent to slam into the boats, propelling two stacks of them back about 15 feet, where they crashed into the opposite side fence and spilled over. Before I go any further, I feel compelled to tell you that Mr. Innocent is fine (so fine, in fact, that he came into the store today to make sure that we had all the information on the woman who hit him so that we would also be able to successfully sue the bastard) and that he seems to have suffered no permanent damage. Still, the amount of damage that the woman did to the fence and the boats totals around $17,000.
Homegirl was worried, and probably rightfully so, after seeing the driver of the other car flying through the air and soaring into our boat yard. So she did what any non-thinking completely wasted person would do who feared for nothing more than herself: she drove off. She didn't make it very far, though. Before long, her car (which was pretty badly damaged in the accident) quit running. Then, someone hit her as her car suddenly stopped running in the middle of a very busy street. When the second car accident person tried to call the cops to report the accident, she dug her hole even deeper: she physically ran for it. I bet that was a sight worth seeing.
By the time the cops got there, homegirl was long gone. The second driver gave a report to the police, but she was nowhere to be found. You may ask, how do we know that Drunky McDrunkerson was the one who hit the first car and then was involved in the second accident when we don't physically have a person to connect to the first accident, and rightfully so. It's a reasonable question and one to which I have a very satisfactory answer. It is true that, after she left the scene and was involved in the second accident it would, under normal circumstances, be hard to establish a link between the first and second accidents. Certainly it is feasible that two accidents could occur within a short distance of each other in that part of town so late at night. Well, lucky for us, it just so happens that Drunky hit the first car with such force and in such a perfect, perfect place that, not only did she cause little to no damage to the poor man who was involved, but she also left a perfectly readable imprint of her license plate numbers on his car. Apparently Drunky also has a couple other felony charges and its looking pretty likely that she will be sitting on the inside looking out for awhile after all this goes down. Good job, Drunky, at least you made it easy for the police to find you after leaving the scene. So, as Jeff Foxworthy would say....here's your sign. We appreciate you laying a trail that was so blatantly obvious that even the cops could figure it out. Also, we appreciate you having insurance---it certainly makes things a lot less messy for us, and we have $17,000 in damaged boats.
Once again, my first year torts professor has inspired me--let's sue the bastard!
First of all, I need to lay a bit of a foundation. I guess to have a complete picture of who I am, you should know that my parents own a business. But my dad isn't your typical business-owner. He certainly doesn't go to work in a shirt and tie. If he did, it would get in the way. A tie, in my dad's case, would be more of an occupational hazard than anything else. Much like how, in the movie the Incredibles, there's that whole discussion of how capes on superheroes are dangerous--so too would a tie be in my dad's situation. Our store sells sporting goods--specifically, for hunting and fishing. And my dad happens to be one of the best archery technicians in the country. (Imagine what would happen if he drew back a bow and his tie got caught!) My grandparents started the business back in 1954, when they dug worms themselves and sold bait and tackle out of the back of their house. Since then, we have developed into a couple of different businesses, but today our biggest business is the sporting goods store. We still sell bait and tackle--and, in fact, we are one of the largest wholesalers of bloodworms on the east coast. So, basically, I am an heiress much like Paris Hilton. See the resemblance?
Anyway, back to my story. Last night, my parents got a call from the police that the alarm was going off at the store. My dad rushed in like a superhero to see what all the trouble was about. When he got there, he learned that around midnight last night a woman was driving downtown. As I'm sure you guessed, she is not a fine upstanding woman of strong moral fiber. No, instead she is the type who eschews sobriety and responsibility in general, in favor of a looser lifestyle. She, while out for a late nightcap, was speeding negligently down the street that our store is on, crossed two lanes of traffic, went over the median, crossed two more lanes of traffic and struck a car, going the opposite direction. The man driving the car was thrown headfirst across our parking lot, where he crashed into our chain link fence, tore it down, and landed in our boat yard where we have several stacks of jon boats. The force of the accident caused Mr. Innocent to slam into the boats, propelling two stacks of them back about 15 feet, where they crashed into the opposite side fence and spilled over. Before I go any further, I feel compelled to tell you that Mr. Innocent is fine (so fine, in fact, that he came into the store today to make sure that we had all the information on the woman who hit him so that we would also be able to successfully sue the bastard) and that he seems to have suffered no permanent damage. Still, the amount of damage that the woman did to the fence and the boats totals around $17,000.
Homegirl was worried, and probably rightfully so, after seeing the driver of the other car flying through the air and soaring into our boat yard. So she did what any non-thinking completely wasted person would do who feared for nothing more than herself: she drove off. She didn't make it very far, though. Before long, her car (which was pretty badly damaged in the accident) quit running. Then, someone hit her as her car suddenly stopped running in the middle of a very busy street. When the second car accident person tried to call the cops to report the accident, she dug her hole even deeper: she physically ran for it. I bet that was a sight worth seeing.
By the time the cops got there, homegirl was long gone. The second driver gave a report to the police, but she was nowhere to be found. You may ask, how do we know that Drunky McDrunkerson was the one who hit the first car and then was involved in the second accident when we don't physically have a person to connect to the first accident, and rightfully so. It's a reasonable question and one to which I have a very satisfactory answer. It is true that, after she left the scene and was involved in the second accident it would, under normal circumstances, be hard to establish a link between the first and second accidents. Certainly it is feasible that two accidents could occur within a short distance of each other in that part of town so late at night. Well, lucky for us, it just so happens that Drunky hit the first car with such force and in such a perfect, perfect place that, not only did she cause little to no damage to the poor man who was involved, but she also left a perfectly readable imprint of her license plate numbers on his car. Apparently Drunky also has a couple other felony charges and its looking pretty likely that she will be sitting on the inside looking out for awhile after all this goes down. Good job, Drunky, at least you made it easy for the police to find you after leaving the scene. So, as Jeff Foxworthy would say....here's your sign. We appreciate you laying a trail that was so blatantly obvious that even the cops could figure it out. Also, we appreciate you having insurance---it certainly makes things a lot less messy for us, and we have $17,000 in damaged boats.
Once again, my first year torts professor has inspired me--let's sue the bastard!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Get Out Your Jump to Conclusions Mat
Last night, Andy and I were talking about Christmas presents. Presents happen to be one of my favorite topics, and I consider myself a most experienced and enlightened gift-giver. Unfortunately, my financial situation makes it such that I can't do anywhere near as much as I'd like to do for the people who matter most in my life but, as I may have mentioned before, I am a planner, details are my particular specialty, and what I lack in monetary resources, I make up for by careful pre-planning and strict budgets. This year, I have been saving up/stockpiling since September. Next year I hope things will be considerably easier, as I will have found (cross your fingers, ladies) gainful employment of the legal variety. Still, as for this year, times are lean and I must carefully budget and plan each and every purchase. The presents I still have to purchase are for my sister, my parents and a little more something something for Andy. My vision is that I will have a plethora of presents for him. My mom always wraps each little thing separately, so that on Christmas morning we have a mountain of presents...and this, too, is my view. Gift-giving makes me as excited as I used to be to have gifts given to me. I take lots of time to select the perfect thing for each person, listening carefully to everything they say for months before I start to plan. Basically, Christmas is a year-round process.
Anyway, last night I was talking to Andy as he drove home from a hunting trip, and we eventually came to the subject of presents. He asked if I had figured out what to get him, and I have, partially, but am always interested to catalog things that he wants for future reference--or to give suggestions to his parents for things to do for him. Anyway, he gave me a few ideas and then he said, and I quote:
"I already know what I'm getting you for your big present."
Aha! I thought, let's see what I can weasel out of him. "Can you give me a hint?" I asked, slyly. Generally when I am given hints, I am able to figure things out. And he said, and I quote once again,
"No. But it's very expensive."
Well, I have to say, that set my little mind to racing. In MY mind, although I am sure there are numerous other possibilities, "very expensive" can mean only one thing: diamond. Let's discuss the evidence I have to support this theory: he told me he was saving. His dad told me he was saving. He asked me what kind of ring I would like. We discussed what color gold (as far as I am concerned, he can pick out whatever else he wants, but I want white gold) and side stones and ring shape and everything. Also, I told him I want to get married next September (conveniently after the bar exam, but before I find out the results so I would have time to honeymoon and have parties in my--that is, our--honor before I have to be a big kid and go to work) and he talks about it, too. I also made it clear that there will be no house together until we are married, and he keeps referring to next year when we buy a house. Also, there have been other little hints in daily conversation that I have taken to mean that yes, we are soon to be engaged. Betrothed. Promised. Whatever. I am convinced against the possibility of unconvincing that Andy is the one for me and that he knows that I'm the one, too. It makes me giddy.
Let's not discuss the evidence I have that does not support this theory.
You're setting yourself up for disappointment, you may say, and rightfully so. What if I'm wrong? It's bad to set a date on these things when you have no control over it at all. I don't think I'm convinced it will be Christmas (although I'll let you know if I feel a twinge of heartbreak when I wake up Christmas morning with nothing sparkling on a certain left hand finger), but I do want to think that I'm right. A couple weeks ago I asked my mom if Andy had asked for permission yet. (I'm not proud of it, okay? Don't judge me.) She said no. But she WOULD say no. I don't think she's lying to me, but I don't think she'd tell me, either. And Andy plans at the last minute, so if he was going to ask, he would probably do it much closer to the day he actually popped the question. I love that expression. It's like it comes out of nowhere and punches you in the face. Well, under those conditions, I would be thrilled to get punched in the face, even if it was with a rather large diamond. Small price to pay, it seems to me, in exchange for a lifetime of happiness with the boy of your dreams.
So, although I am well aware that it is entirely possible that I am jumping to illogical conclusions, I jump regardless. Please jump with me, too, because I would like to spend the remainder of the time between today (November 5th) and December 25th in a tulle, flower arrangement, and venue-selecting induced stupor.
Anyway, last night I was talking to Andy as he drove home from a hunting trip, and we eventually came to the subject of presents. He asked if I had figured out what to get him, and I have, partially, but am always interested to catalog things that he wants for future reference--or to give suggestions to his parents for things to do for him. Anyway, he gave me a few ideas and then he said, and I quote:
"I already know what I'm getting you for your big present."
Aha! I thought, let's see what I can weasel out of him. "Can you give me a hint?" I asked, slyly. Generally when I am given hints, I am able to figure things out. And he said, and I quote once again,
"No. But it's very expensive."
Well, I have to say, that set my little mind to racing. In MY mind, although I am sure there are numerous other possibilities, "very expensive" can mean only one thing: diamond. Let's discuss the evidence I have to support this theory: he told me he was saving. His dad told me he was saving. He asked me what kind of ring I would like. We discussed what color gold (as far as I am concerned, he can pick out whatever else he wants, but I want white gold) and side stones and ring shape and everything. Also, I told him I want to get married next September (conveniently after the bar exam, but before I find out the results so I would have time to honeymoon and have parties in my--that is, our--honor before I have to be a big kid and go to work) and he talks about it, too. I also made it clear that there will be no house together until we are married, and he keeps referring to next year when we buy a house. Also, there have been other little hints in daily conversation that I have taken to mean that yes, we are soon to be engaged. Betrothed. Promised. Whatever. I am convinced against the possibility of unconvincing that Andy is the one for me and that he knows that I'm the one, too. It makes me giddy.
Let's not discuss the evidence I have that does not support this theory.
You're setting yourself up for disappointment, you may say, and rightfully so. What if I'm wrong? It's bad to set a date on these things when you have no control over it at all. I don't think I'm convinced it will be Christmas (although I'll let you know if I feel a twinge of heartbreak when I wake up Christmas morning with nothing sparkling on a certain left hand finger), but I do want to think that I'm right. A couple weeks ago I asked my mom if Andy had asked for permission yet. (I'm not proud of it, okay? Don't judge me.) She said no. But she WOULD say no. I don't think she's lying to me, but I don't think she'd tell me, either. And Andy plans at the last minute, so if he was going to ask, he would probably do it much closer to the day he actually popped the question. I love that expression. It's like it comes out of nowhere and punches you in the face. Well, under those conditions, I would be thrilled to get punched in the face, even if it was with a rather large diamond. Small price to pay, it seems to me, in exchange for a lifetime of happiness with the boy of your dreams.
So, although I am well aware that it is entirely possible that I am jumping to illogical conclusions, I jump regardless. Please jump with me, too, because I would like to spend the remainder of the time between today (November 5th) and December 25th in a tulle, flower arrangement, and venue-selecting induced stupor.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Geriatric Demographic and Other Revelations
Casual realizations of the week of November 1st:
1. It is generally a bad idea to use your empty soda can as a temporary trash can until you get up the energy to stand up and walk over to the real trash can. Sometimes you will forget that you have done so, wonder how much soda may be left in the can, and attempt to drink---sometimes with particularly nasty consequences.
2. Also, while driving long distances, you may be tempted to try to figure out a way to pee in the leftover drink cup sitting nearly empty in your cup holder. It is always so inconvenient to waste the time that it takes to take an exit, to find an appropriate place with a relatively clean bathroom, pee, and then find your way back to the interstate again. It's funny what you will consider when you are feeling particularly desperate. GPS travel has permanently altered my mindset on long trips. Glinda, my GPS, tells me when I am supposed to arrive at my destination and it makes me irrationally angry when a minute is added on to that time. I try to avoid this at all costs. However, for the aforementioned reasons, this is a bad idea. Disregard, and do not attempt to figure out a way to do this, no matter how many minutes it adds on to your travel time. (Don't worry--I followed my own advice in this particular instance because the possibility of an extremely nasty situation seems so likely.)
3. "I piss excellence," is an appropriate response in most situations.
4. Tang time is always a good time. I really enjoy its sugary sweetness and I can overlook the slight tinge of banana. Today at tang time, there were also coconut macaroons, teeny tiny cheesecake bites, and the standard flying WV cookies. Yum.
5. I wish my life was a musical. I would very much like to suddenly jump into the center of a group of people and dance my way down the hallway. It seems so much better than walking. This week's soundtrack song: Hall and Oates, "You Make My Dreams." Try it, see if you don't feel like dancing.
6. I am an advocate of being a bargain shopper. Before I buy something online, I frequently search for coupon codes. I also have recently discovered the benefit of coupon cutting. I always buy the products that get discounts with a grocery store MVP/VIP or whatever card and I eat or drink whatever is on special. However, that being said, there are three things you should never, never, ever consider cost when purchasing. These things are: (1) vacuum cleaners, (2) toilet paper, and (3) pregnancy tests. Spend the money on the trusted brand--you won't be sorry. Just because you can get some things at the Dollar Store does not mean its a good idea.
8. At least 75% of the things in my fridge are cheese products. The other 25% are condiments.
9. Old men are my demographic. It is always a good idea to make it a point whenever I am negotiating to address the oldest man in the room. This is a theory that has been reinforced throughout the years. At the risk of boring you, I will give one example to illustrate this point. Last summer, my sister and I were traveling home from vacation in Mexico. Our flight came in somewhere in the godforsaken midwest, and we were expected to wait through an overnight layover, sleeping on our duffle bags somewhere on the floor of the airport. Icky. I didn't want to. So when we got in from Mexico, there was a line of airline officials. I searched down the line, summarily vetoing every single woman or young attractive man, selecting instead a much older gentleman who looked a little stern. I saw through that facade, though, and sweetly asked if he could do anything to change our flight. After a few minutes of casual talk, he changed our flight without charging at all. My sister said it was masterful. Well, I have to admit, I do feel connected to the elderly. It's a gift. Be wary, though, if you choose to follow this course of action--the geriatric demographic has some downfalls, too. Sometimes they get a little touchy-feely. A slight hazard, I admit.
10. Every single girl in the world deserves a boyfriend like Andy. Okay, this realization isn't funny or even the slightest bit clever. But still, I sincerely hope that each and every girl in the world finds someone who listens to them complain, who makes them feel better whenever something goes wrong, who calls every night before bed just to say good night, and always says I love you. Every single girl in the world also deserves some chocolate, in some form, every single day, diets notwithstanding.
1. It is generally a bad idea to use your empty soda can as a temporary trash can until you get up the energy to stand up and walk over to the real trash can. Sometimes you will forget that you have done so, wonder how much soda may be left in the can, and attempt to drink---sometimes with particularly nasty consequences.
2. Also, while driving long distances, you may be tempted to try to figure out a way to pee in the leftover drink cup sitting nearly empty in your cup holder. It is always so inconvenient to waste the time that it takes to take an exit, to find an appropriate place with a relatively clean bathroom, pee, and then find your way back to the interstate again. It's funny what you will consider when you are feeling particularly desperate. GPS travel has permanently altered my mindset on long trips. Glinda, my GPS, tells me when I am supposed to arrive at my destination and it makes me irrationally angry when a minute is added on to that time. I try to avoid this at all costs. However, for the aforementioned reasons, this is a bad idea. Disregard, and do not attempt to figure out a way to do this, no matter how many minutes it adds on to your travel time. (Don't worry--I followed my own advice in this particular instance because the possibility of an extremely nasty situation seems so likely.)
3. "I piss excellence," is an appropriate response in most situations.
4. Tang time is always a good time. I really enjoy its sugary sweetness and I can overlook the slight tinge of banana. Today at tang time, there were also coconut macaroons, teeny tiny cheesecake bites, and the standard flying WV cookies. Yum.
5. I wish my life was a musical. I would very much like to suddenly jump into the center of a group of people and dance my way down the hallway. It seems so much better than walking. This week's soundtrack song: Hall and Oates, "You Make My Dreams." Try it, see if you don't feel like dancing.
6. I am an advocate of being a bargain shopper. Before I buy something online, I frequently search for coupon codes. I also have recently discovered the benefit of coupon cutting. I always buy the products that get discounts with a grocery store MVP/VIP or whatever card and I eat or drink whatever is on special. However, that being said, there are three things you should never, never, ever consider cost when purchasing. These things are: (1) vacuum cleaners, (2) toilet paper, and (3) pregnancy tests. Spend the money on the trusted brand--you won't be sorry. Just because you can get some things at the Dollar Store does not mean its a good idea.
8. At least 75% of the things in my fridge are cheese products. The other 25% are condiments.
9. Old men are my demographic. It is always a good idea to make it a point whenever I am negotiating to address the oldest man in the room. This is a theory that has been reinforced throughout the years. At the risk of boring you, I will give one example to illustrate this point. Last summer, my sister and I were traveling home from vacation in Mexico. Our flight came in somewhere in the godforsaken midwest, and we were expected to wait through an overnight layover, sleeping on our duffle bags somewhere on the floor of the airport. Icky. I didn't want to. So when we got in from Mexico, there was a line of airline officials. I searched down the line, summarily vetoing every single woman or young attractive man, selecting instead a much older gentleman who looked a little stern. I saw through that facade, though, and sweetly asked if he could do anything to change our flight. After a few minutes of casual talk, he changed our flight without charging at all. My sister said it was masterful. Well, I have to admit, I do feel connected to the elderly. It's a gift. Be wary, though, if you choose to follow this course of action--the geriatric demographic has some downfalls, too. Sometimes they get a little touchy-feely. A slight hazard, I admit.
10. Every single girl in the world deserves a boyfriend like Andy. Okay, this realization isn't funny or even the slightest bit clever. But still, I sincerely hope that each and every girl in the world finds someone who listens to them complain, who makes them feel better whenever something goes wrong, who calls every night before bed just to say good night, and always says I love you. Every single girl in the world also deserves some chocolate, in some form, every single day, diets notwithstanding.
Monday, November 1, 2010
A Spoonful of Sugar
I am prone to exaggeration. By now, you probably know that, but still, I want to preface my post with a very true statement about myself so that you know how to take some things I say in the spirit in which they are meant. That is to say, at the time I said them, I meant them with ferocity, but now, as time has faded the memory of the various injustices done to me, I see things in a calmer, more rational light. So it is with clinic.
Now that some time has passed and I have gotten some perspective, things have transformed a little. Now that I have had a terminally ill client, who we all knew was going to die any day and we had a number of ridiculously complicated things to do for her in a very limited but we weren't sure exactly how limited span of time, whose case was extremely stressful, I feel much more capable. Now that things have calmed down from that case, I have realized that the majority of my frustration was because of the mismanagement of that first case. And even though there have been some mismanaged and some extremely disorganized things that have happened since then, I can look at them a little less hatefully now that I no longer have a client who may die any day. My clients now are healthy and seem likely to survive the next fortnight, which is definitely a plus, so the work that I have to do is less desperately pressing.
This past week was pretty good. I think that I can mark last Monday as a turning point for me and my clinic experience, which is strange because really I didn't do much for clinic at all. I had gone in to school for office hours at noon which, luckily for me, tends to coincide with the lecture series that the law school offers every so often. I don't generally GO to the lectures (they are boring and I have enough class time, thank you very much) but the law school also provides refreshments after the lectures and Savannah, my clinic partner, and I tend to crash the after parties. Last Monday was no exception. Savannah was pumped because, instead of the icky red punch they have had all year, they had orange punch, which Savannah calls Tang. It is not Tang, though. It's so much more than Tang. Tang is gross; this orange punch is deliciousness, except that it does have the teeniest hint of banana, and I am allergic to banana. Anyway, after free egg rolls and mini quiche and chicken salad sandwiches and bacon wrapped chicken and fruit and veggies and flying WV sugar cookies (because what reception would be complete without them?), we were pretty giddy. After that, we went down into the clinic office. Savannah refers to these receptions as "tang time" which we generally sing to each other, rather than say. Armed with a serious sugar high, everything else in clinic seemed much less miserable. And my sugar high has lasted a week now.
In addition to tang time, Professor Umbridge is trying to butter me up. Although I still swear that we are pretty close to mortal enemies, I have to admit that the email she sent last week melted my hatred a LITTLE bit. (Just a little, though.) In the name of painting a complete picture for you and not completely villanizing the woman, I will include an email that she wrote and forwarded to the members of our clinic:
Dear Purveyor of Awards,
Now that some time has passed and I have gotten some perspective, things have transformed a little. Now that I have had a terminally ill client, who we all knew was going to die any day and we had a number of ridiculously complicated things to do for her in a very limited but we weren't sure exactly how limited span of time, whose case was extremely stressful, I feel much more capable. Now that things have calmed down from that case, I have realized that the majority of my frustration was because of the mismanagement of that first case. And even though there have been some mismanaged and some extremely disorganized things that have happened since then, I can look at them a little less hatefully now that I no longer have a client who may die any day. My clients now are healthy and seem likely to survive the next fortnight, which is definitely a plus, so the work that I have to do is less desperately pressing.
This past week was pretty good. I think that I can mark last Monday as a turning point for me and my clinic experience, which is strange because really I didn't do much for clinic at all. I had gone in to school for office hours at noon which, luckily for me, tends to coincide with the lecture series that the law school offers every so often. I don't generally GO to the lectures (they are boring and I have enough class time, thank you very much) but the law school also provides refreshments after the lectures and Savannah, my clinic partner, and I tend to crash the after parties. Last Monday was no exception. Savannah was pumped because, instead of the icky red punch they have had all year, they had orange punch, which Savannah calls Tang. It is not Tang, though. It's so much more than Tang. Tang is gross; this orange punch is deliciousness, except that it does have the teeniest hint of banana, and I am allergic to banana. Anyway, after free egg rolls and mini quiche and chicken salad sandwiches and bacon wrapped chicken and fruit and veggies and flying WV sugar cookies (because what reception would be complete without them?), we were pretty giddy. After that, we went down into the clinic office. Savannah refers to these receptions as "tang time" which we generally sing to each other, rather than say. Armed with a serious sugar high, everything else in clinic seemed much less miserable. And my sugar high has lasted a week now.
In addition to tang time, Professor Umbridge is trying to butter me up. Although I still swear that we are pretty close to mortal enemies, I have to admit that the email she sent last week melted my hatred a LITTLE bit. (Just a little, though.) In the name of painting a complete picture for you and not completely villanizing the woman, I will include an email that she wrote and forwarded to the members of our clinic:
Dear Purveyor of Awards,
"I am nominating the students in my Child & Family Advocacy Clinic for the excellence award this month.
We have eight students in CAFLC. This is the first semester the clinic has operated and the students have done an excellent job in representing clients in very demanding cases, both because the stakes were high, the issues complex, and the personal circumstances of our clients extremely dire (including our first client, a mother with a disabled child who died from a terminal illness 3 weeks after we took her case). The students have worked very hard as a team, including over Labor Day weekend, where 6 of the 8 students worked to help the client who was dying arrange her affairs to provide for the care and well-being of her disabled son. The case was extremely complex and required the students to get up to speed on a number of fairly complex issues. When our client took a turn for the worse over Labor Day weekend, students spent the weekend with Prof. Weise and myself working day and night to complete the work. The family was extremely grateful and the client passed away knowing that her child would be provided for, which took a heavy burden from her at the time of her death.
In addition to that case, students have represented families and children in cases involving family violence, special education, abuse & neglect cases, and disputed custody and child support cases. Through our students' efforts, we have obtained protective orders for two clients, each with small children; helped two families whose disabled children have been bullied and harassed by peers at their schools, and helped clients seeking to adopt or formalize guardianship arrangements for children whose parents have abandoned them.
In addition to representing individual clients, our clinic has been appointed as guardian ad litem for three children in three cases in Family Court to assist the court in deciding highly contested custody disputes. We are partners with the WVU Medical-Legal Partnership with the Pediatrics Department and our clinic students have spent time weekly in the Adolescent and Children's continuity of care clinic at the WVU Health Sciences building. So far this semester, we have provided advice and legal assistance in cases involving very young children who are struggling with life-threatening illnesses.
Throughout the semester, the students have also done a great job of community outreach, visiting various non-profits, hospitals, courts and other providers of services to children and families to establish connections and referral systems.
They have traveled to visit clients in their homes in Taylor, Upshur, and Marion counties. They have all worked hard, diligently, and passionately to make a difference in children's lives -- and they have."
Okay, so she didn't write that first line and I also took out the names of the other clinic students, but everything else in that email is verbatim. Kind of nice. Anyway, that email, in addition to tang time, has made my life a little brighter. And has also made me reconsider my course choices for next semester. To take clinic, or not to take clinic? Right now, I'm leaning towards taking it. Ironic, huh?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Young and In Love
If there is one thing I talk about sort of a lot in my day-to-day life, it is clinic. If there is a second thing I talk about with some sort of frequency, it is Andy. If there is a third thing I talk about on occasion, it is weddings/engagements (with emphasis on my own).
I can't help it. Something about the way my chromosomes connected gave me an excess of the Bride gene. It's not my fault. It's my genetic makeup. And unfortunately, I think my mom gave all of the B genes she had in her to me, and so there were none left over for my sister. Instead of thinking up her own wedding, which would require a slight dose of the B gene (or at least a glance at Martha Stewart Weddings), she took mine, which I had carefully planned during innumerable hours of otherwise unprofitable daydreaming. Now I am currently engaged in the re-planning of my wedding. Although I was annoyed with my sister at first, I am glad that she demonstrated some of the flaws with a few of the plans I originally made. Now, because I am more experienced in the art of wedding planning and execution, I will be much more ideally situated to put the thing off without a hitch. Well, preferably with a hitch---because Andy and I had better be getting hitched. But just one. Other than that, perfection is necessary.
Luckily, not only do I have an aptitude for wedding planning, I have finally found the perfect boy. And I would be lying if I said that I wasn't 100% thrilled about it--not JUST the possibility of years and years of wedded bliss (and I really have no doubt that's what it will be), but also the alluring idea that relatively soon it will be my turn to work on planning the perfect (to me) wedding. I have to say, I totally can't wait.
Even though I KNOW I can't put too much faith in old adages, I have always heard that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. To that end, I have spent countless hours in the kitchen, trying to perfect various recipes--usually desserts. Currently, I have a chocolate marbled cheesecake in the oven, preparing to wow Andy into matrimony. Okay, honestly, I know it doesn't work that way. But it can't hurt to try. Seduction, after all, can come in many forms.
The other night, I had a dream. Frequently my preoccupation with matrimony invades my dreams, but this time was different. It was more vivid--and a bit more ridiculous. In my dream, I knew Andy was going to propose because he asked my parents and my mom called me immediately afterwards to tell me he was about to pop the question. So when Andy was about to ask, I knew it was coming. I was giddy with excitement and, he got down on one knee, and I practically yelled yes. When he gave me the ring, though, it was bizarre. You know those flip flops, where you buy the flop and the flips are interchangeable? And they sometimes have different little gems you can put on the flop? Well, my engagement ring was like that. There were different bands and different diamonds, and they were all interchangeable. I didn't like it very much but I woke up thinking that it was so exciting to be engaged, no matter what the ring.
My sister, for all her wedding-stealing, is right about one thing. The engagement ring is the most important ring, like, ever. Not because it has to be big or expensive, but because its the one thing that your man buys you when you have absolutely nothing. When he has to scrimp and save every last penny and he buys the best thing he can afford. Even though, at just about any other time in your life, you could probably have a bigger diamond. But that's not the point. The point is that this is the one time that you are starting out. It doesn't matter if it's big or small. All that matters is that one day, hopefully soon, Andy will be on one knee and our life will be starting. I can hardly think of anything else.
It's no wonder the thought is invading my dreams, too. But still, let's hope the stones on my engagement ring are not interchangeable.
I can't help it. Something about the way my chromosomes connected gave me an excess of the Bride gene. It's not my fault. It's my genetic makeup. And unfortunately, I think my mom gave all of the B genes she had in her to me, and so there were none left over for my sister. Instead of thinking up her own wedding, which would require a slight dose of the B gene (or at least a glance at Martha Stewart Weddings), she took mine, which I had carefully planned during innumerable hours of otherwise unprofitable daydreaming. Now I am currently engaged in the re-planning of my wedding. Although I was annoyed with my sister at first, I am glad that she demonstrated some of the flaws with a few of the plans I originally made. Now, because I am more experienced in the art of wedding planning and execution, I will be much more ideally situated to put the thing off without a hitch. Well, preferably with a hitch---because Andy and I had better be getting hitched. But just one. Other than that, perfection is necessary.
Luckily, not only do I have an aptitude for wedding planning, I have finally found the perfect boy. And I would be lying if I said that I wasn't 100% thrilled about it--not JUST the possibility of years and years of wedded bliss (and I really have no doubt that's what it will be), but also the alluring idea that relatively soon it will be my turn to work on planning the perfect (to me) wedding. I have to say, I totally can't wait.
Even though I KNOW I can't put too much faith in old adages, I have always heard that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. To that end, I have spent countless hours in the kitchen, trying to perfect various recipes--usually desserts. Currently, I have a chocolate marbled cheesecake in the oven, preparing to wow Andy into matrimony. Okay, honestly, I know it doesn't work that way. But it can't hurt to try. Seduction, after all, can come in many forms.
The other night, I had a dream. Frequently my preoccupation with matrimony invades my dreams, but this time was different. It was more vivid--and a bit more ridiculous. In my dream, I knew Andy was going to propose because he asked my parents and my mom called me immediately afterwards to tell me he was about to pop the question. So when Andy was about to ask, I knew it was coming. I was giddy with excitement and, he got down on one knee, and I practically yelled yes. When he gave me the ring, though, it was bizarre. You know those flip flops, where you buy the flop and the flips are interchangeable? And they sometimes have different little gems you can put on the flop? Well, my engagement ring was like that. There were different bands and different diamonds, and they were all interchangeable. I didn't like it very much but I woke up thinking that it was so exciting to be engaged, no matter what the ring.
My sister, for all her wedding-stealing, is right about one thing. The engagement ring is the most important ring, like, ever. Not because it has to be big or expensive, but because its the one thing that your man buys you when you have absolutely nothing. When he has to scrimp and save every last penny and he buys the best thing he can afford. Even though, at just about any other time in your life, you could probably have a bigger diamond. But that's not the point. The point is that this is the one time that you are starting out. It doesn't matter if it's big or small. All that matters is that one day, hopefully soon, Andy will be on one knee and our life will be starting. I can hardly think of anything else.
It's no wonder the thought is invading my dreams, too. But still, let's hope the stones on my engagement ring are not interchangeable.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Real Life Elle Woods
It would be weird if I framed it, wouldn't it? It's okay, who needs a frame? I rewarded myself with cookies. Mmmmmm. I like cookies.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Never Shave Above the Knee Unless You're Expecting Company
If there is a benefit to being the long-suffering woman in a long-term long-distance relationship, I have to say that there are three.
1. Showers are optional.
2. Sweatpants/yoga pants/flannel PJs are mandatory.
3. No shaving is necessary.
Does that sound gross? I would apologize if I felt sorry at all. But I don't. Each of these is somehow related, but also independent of each other. And, every day that I am separated from Andy, I do appreciate that these three things make every day life without him a little bit easier and a little more enjoyable.
Most of my Andy-free days are spent wallowing in the same clothes for days at a time in the same spot on the couch, with various casebooks, highlighters and empty Coke zero cans haphazardly arranged in a circle around me. I can't say I enjoy the boyfriend-free zone, but the warm fuzziness of my green fleece blanket and a new season of Dexter from Netflix make the alone time more enjoyable than it would otherwise be. And, really, who likes to shave? Or shower.
Although I consider myself quite an accomplished baker, I rarely take the time to cook anything of consequence when I'm here in West Virginia. Unless, of course, I get a new edition of Martha Stewart Living. Something about the bright, seasonally decorated pages puts me in a cooking frame of mind. I have to admit, I did subscribe to the magazine out of a thin glimmer of pathetic hope that one day soon I will be a wife and, in that line of thinking, I told myself quite firmly that I would have to master a much broader arrange of culinary arts in order to please a husband with a discriminating palate. I need to encourage myself to stay away from the microwaveable soups, sandwiches, instant oatmeal and bagels that make up so much of my at-school diet. Its hard to find much motivation to cook for one, though. Still, I try to tell myself that this is a life I will never live again and that I need to enjoy it to the fullest. After this year, the amount of time I will get to spend watching Dexter in yoga pants after going to the gym and then not showering will be slim to none. Especially if I get married, which I definitely hope I do. He told me he's saving for a ring, and I'm definitely hoping to set a date for sometime next September. So, that just reaffirms this simple fact: You can't always be a carefree twentysomething girl living alone. One day, your world will change and maybe, just maybe, you'll miss the days you spent, just sitting on the couch, reading endlessly from casebooks, in yoga pants and an old sorority t-shirt, messy hair pulled up in a bun on top of your head, with legs a little like Sasquatch. It's a little like freedom.
1. Showers are optional.
2. Sweatpants/yoga pants/flannel PJs are mandatory.
3. No shaving is necessary.
Does that sound gross? I would apologize if I felt sorry at all. But I don't. Each of these is somehow related, but also independent of each other. And, every day that I am separated from Andy, I do appreciate that these three things make every day life without him a little bit easier and a little more enjoyable.
Most of my Andy-free days are spent wallowing in the same clothes for days at a time in the same spot on the couch, with various casebooks, highlighters and empty Coke zero cans haphazardly arranged in a circle around me. I can't say I enjoy the boyfriend-free zone, but the warm fuzziness of my green fleece blanket and a new season of Dexter from Netflix make the alone time more enjoyable than it would otherwise be. And, really, who likes to shave? Or shower.
Although I consider myself quite an accomplished baker, I rarely take the time to cook anything of consequence when I'm here in West Virginia. Unless, of course, I get a new edition of Martha Stewart Living. Something about the bright, seasonally decorated pages puts me in a cooking frame of mind. I have to admit, I did subscribe to the magazine out of a thin glimmer of pathetic hope that one day soon I will be a wife and, in that line of thinking, I told myself quite firmly that I would have to master a much broader arrange of culinary arts in order to please a husband with a discriminating palate. I need to encourage myself to stay away from the microwaveable soups, sandwiches, instant oatmeal and bagels that make up so much of my at-school diet. Its hard to find much motivation to cook for one, though. Still, I try to tell myself that this is a life I will never live again and that I need to enjoy it to the fullest. After this year, the amount of time I will get to spend watching Dexter in yoga pants after going to the gym and then not showering will be slim to none. Especially if I get married, which I definitely hope I do. He told me he's saving for a ring, and I'm definitely hoping to set a date for sometime next September. So, that just reaffirms this simple fact: You can't always be a carefree twentysomething girl living alone. One day, your world will change and maybe, just maybe, you'll miss the days you spent, just sitting on the couch, reading endlessly from casebooks, in yoga pants and an old sorority t-shirt, messy hair pulled up in a bun on top of your head, with legs a little like Sasquatch. It's a little like freedom.
Friday, October 22, 2010
MDTs and IEPs and Memos, Oh My!
I'm sorry that my most recent posts have been so emo and self-deprecating. Sometimes, I forget that I'm a 24 year old adult and not a whiny thirteen year old schoolgirl. Sometimes, even though I realize that's the way I'm coming across, I can't stop myself. It's like the whinyness comes from somewhere deep in my soul and I can't prevent the negativity.
This time, I assure you, my negativity won't be a problem because I have had a week that, although exhausting and stressful and entirely too long, made me feel like success may be possible at some point in my life before I am old and wrinkled and the joy of success has long since left my frozen, old maid soul. Tell me about your success, you say? As a matter of fact, I will. There are so many things I will make a list for your reading pleasure.
1. I am a memo-writing maniac. On Monday, Professor Umbridge sent me an email that left me chilled to the bone. "Katie, can you write a memo on the new file by Monday?" Great. Thanks, Dolores. As if I didn't already have enough to do, I will find time in my nonexistent free time to write a memo dealing with a TON of elements...by the end of the week. It's cool. I've got this. Luckily, I did. Between Tuesday night and this morning, I found the time to draft a 32 page memo. (See, a legal memo is not a "memo" in the way normal people think about it--it's not a couple sentences scrawled on a pink post-it--it's a description of a case, including factual history, law, a description of application of law to fact, etc.) I haven't gotten any feedback yet, but I am feeling very optimistic. I must say, it is the Mona Lisa of legal memos.
2. My clinic partner, Savannah, and I went to our first MDT meeting as counsel for a real, live client! It started off a bit rocky at first because Savannah was 15 minutes late and we were just taking the exit ramp a few minutes before our meeting was supposed to start. The MapQuest directions we had gotten were totally wrong and, before long, we were lost. Savannah started freaking out, which is usually my job. But for some reason, when Savannah freaks out, I stay calm. Well, I stayed mostly calm. As soon as she told me that the syllabus says that if we miss a hearing for a client, we get an F in the clinic, I lost my cool a little bit. I started thinking of what 7 credit hours worth of Fs would do to my GPA and it made me feel like my lungs were collapsing in on me. Still, I tried to think clearly. I told her to call Professor Umbridge and then our supervisor, who is awesome but I haven't thought of something clever to call her for the purposes of this blog yet. Umbridge was lost too and the Good Supervisor had no idea where we had turned wrong. While Savannah was on the phone with the Good Supervisor, I called 411 and, within minutes, had directions and had pulled into the parking lot of the office where we were supposed to be. We walked in to the meeting, right on time, were escorted in by the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney (more's the pity, though--not the one with the parking meter tickets) and seated... Umbridge was much later, coming in and interrupting the meeting. I smiled. It's nice to be the one who has it together. The MDT itself went well and our client was pleased. Successssssssss.
3. Also, we had a very successful meeting with another client and her children. The Good Supervisor told us afterwards that it sounded like we had a great dialogue going. She was very pleased that we were able to talk so easily with special needs children. Another success. We also got invited to go to one of the children's IEP meetings. The school was so intimidated that we're coming (I have to admit, I can be pretty intimidating at times) that they rescheduled it so that we could have it at a time where their lawyers could also be present. Yes, it's true, I inspire fear everywhere I go. I can't help it. Occupational hazard.
4. Maybe this should be number 1? In my weekly meeting with the Good Supervisor, she told me that Professor Umbridge told her that my cross-examination in clinic class was really good! Professor Umbridge generally hates me, so any compliment is a good compliment. Plus, the Good Supervisor says that, in our hearing that's coming up in November, I can be the person who gives the oral arguments to the court! How exciting! It's so nice to feel like she thinks I'm the right person to handle something, like I'm the best choice for the job. Any job.
5. I spoke to two other clinic students who are annoyed and frustrated by Professor Umbridge and how our clinic is run. They both said they were thinking of dropping. They said that they were planning on talking to the dean that one of the other clinic students had already spoken with and saying that, unless some serious changes are made, they were prepared to drop the clinic. It gives me some serious warm fuzzies. That brings the total number of students thinking about dropping to five. Out of eight. Maybe six. But definitely at least five.
Also, Thanksgiving break isn't so very far away. And after Thanksgiving, it's just a hop, skip and a jump until final exams. Why are you looking towards final exams, you may ask, and justifiably so. What kind of freak of nature looks forward to finals? The freak of nature who knows that what happens before finals is that CLASSES END and that, with the end of classes, comes the end of one traumatic semester of the child and family advocacy clinic.
This time, I assure you, my negativity won't be a problem because I have had a week that, although exhausting and stressful and entirely too long, made me feel like success may be possible at some point in my life before I am old and wrinkled and the joy of success has long since left my frozen, old maid soul. Tell me about your success, you say? As a matter of fact, I will. There are so many things I will make a list for your reading pleasure.
1. I am a memo-writing maniac. On Monday, Professor Umbridge sent me an email that left me chilled to the bone. "Katie, can you write a memo on the new file by Monday?" Great. Thanks, Dolores. As if I didn't already have enough to do, I will find time in my nonexistent free time to write a memo dealing with a TON of elements...by the end of the week. It's cool. I've got this. Luckily, I did. Between Tuesday night and this morning, I found the time to draft a 32 page memo. (See, a legal memo is not a "memo" in the way normal people think about it--it's not a couple sentences scrawled on a pink post-it--it's a description of a case, including factual history, law, a description of application of law to fact, etc.) I haven't gotten any feedback yet, but I am feeling very optimistic. I must say, it is the Mona Lisa of legal memos.
2. My clinic partner, Savannah, and I went to our first MDT meeting as counsel for a real, live client! It started off a bit rocky at first because Savannah was 15 minutes late and we were just taking the exit ramp a few minutes before our meeting was supposed to start. The MapQuest directions we had gotten were totally wrong and, before long, we were lost. Savannah started freaking out, which is usually my job. But for some reason, when Savannah freaks out, I stay calm. Well, I stayed mostly calm. As soon as she told me that the syllabus says that if we miss a hearing for a client, we get an F in the clinic, I lost my cool a little bit. I started thinking of what 7 credit hours worth of Fs would do to my GPA and it made me feel like my lungs were collapsing in on me. Still, I tried to think clearly. I told her to call Professor Umbridge and then our supervisor, who is awesome but I haven't thought of something clever to call her for the purposes of this blog yet. Umbridge was lost too and the Good Supervisor had no idea where we had turned wrong. While Savannah was on the phone with the Good Supervisor, I called 411 and, within minutes, had directions and had pulled into the parking lot of the office where we were supposed to be. We walked in to the meeting, right on time, were escorted in by the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney (more's the pity, though--not the one with the parking meter tickets) and seated... Umbridge was much later, coming in and interrupting the meeting. I smiled. It's nice to be the one who has it together. The MDT itself went well and our client was pleased. Successssssssss.
3. Also, we had a very successful meeting with another client and her children. The Good Supervisor told us afterwards that it sounded like we had a great dialogue going. She was very pleased that we were able to talk so easily with special needs children. Another success. We also got invited to go to one of the children's IEP meetings. The school was so intimidated that we're coming (I have to admit, I can be pretty intimidating at times) that they rescheduled it so that we could have it at a time where their lawyers could also be present. Yes, it's true, I inspire fear everywhere I go. I can't help it. Occupational hazard.
4. Maybe this should be number 1? In my weekly meeting with the Good Supervisor, she told me that Professor Umbridge told her that my cross-examination in clinic class was really good! Professor Umbridge generally hates me, so any compliment is a good compliment. Plus, the Good Supervisor says that, in our hearing that's coming up in November, I can be the person who gives the oral arguments to the court! How exciting! It's so nice to feel like she thinks I'm the right person to handle something, like I'm the best choice for the job. Any job.
5. I spoke to two other clinic students who are annoyed and frustrated by Professor Umbridge and how our clinic is run. They both said they were thinking of dropping. They said that they were planning on talking to the dean that one of the other clinic students had already spoken with and saying that, unless some serious changes are made, they were prepared to drop the clinic. It gives me some serious warm fuzzies. That brings the total number of students thinking about dropping to five. Out of eight. Maybe six. But definitely at least five.
Also, Thanksgiving break isn't so very far away. And after Thanksgiving, it's just a hop, skip and a jump until final exams. Why are you looking towards final exams, you may ask, and justifiably so. What kind of freak of nature looks forward to finals? The freak of nature who knows that what happens before finals is that CLASSES END and that, with the end of classes, comes the end of one traumatic semester of the child and family advocacy clinic.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
"Sue the bastards!"
In my colorful first year torts class, my professor had one saying that he repeated more than any other. No, it wasn't the speech about the being a demigod who had descended (or condescended, as the case may be) to come down from the legal Pantheon to demonstrate to my class the genius of the god-like Learned Hand. It was "Sue the bastards!" which he insisted on us all repeating in chorus at different times throughout the semester. Generally, proceeding that was the statement that, "all liability is based upon fault," but that's not nearly as fun or as much of an attention-getter.
Usually, when Tom Torts discussed suing bastards, he referred to the classic "slip, trip and fall" scenario, which usually took place in the Wal-Mart and usually involved an old "blue hair" who slipped on a wilting lettuce leaf in the produce aisle. Today, I was that blue haired lady.
I went to the Kroger because I needed more organic milk (hey, it tastes better, lasts longer, and is free of all those cancer-causing hormones). I was walking through the store, trying to be inconspicuous because I decided to go in my pajamas, talking on the phone when, all of a sudden, my foot slipped out from under me. I felt my face going red. As I tried to get back up, my foot still slipped. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. An older woman came over to me and helped me up, asking if anything was broken or if I was cut. "Don't get up if it hurts too much, honey!" she kept saying. Once I finally got back on my feet, I looked down and saw that there was a bunch of what looked like spaghetti sauce on the floor and some broken glass pieces. The woman kept fussing over me and said that it was "unacceptable" and that she was going to immediately have someone come clean up the aisle. Meanwhile, I stood there...in pajamas...and flip flops...and, of course, I did not shower today. I painted a very attractive picture, I'm sure.
In Tom Tort's scenario, the lady would sue the evil corporation and, of course, would lose because, no matter how good her claim, Wal-Mart has deep pockets and the "fat cat" company people would stomp the lawsuit out of the little old blue hairs.
I remember in torts thinking that it was so funny that there was an entire section on slip, trip and fall cases. But now that I am a slipper, tripper and faller, I guess its not quite so surprising. The first thing I thought, though, once the deep crimson blush faded from my cheeks and I finally got on my feet (no cuts, bumps or bruises, although I have to say my rear-end is feeling very sore at the moment) was...SUE THE BASTARDS.
But, of course, I know better. My fall was for nothing. FML.
Usually, when Tom Torts discussed suing bastards, he referred to the classic "slip, trip and fall" scenario, which usually took place in the Wal-Mart and usually involved an old "blue hair" who slipped on a wilting lettuce leaf in the produce aisle. Today, I was that blue haired lady.
I went to the Kroger because I needed more organic milk (hey, it tastes better, lasts longer, and is free of all those cancer-causing hormones). I was walking through the store, trying to be inconspicuous because I decided to go in my pajamas, talking on the phone when, all of a sudden, my foot slipped out from under me. I felt my face going red. As I tried to get back up, my foot still slipped. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. An older woman came over to me and helped me up, asking if anything was broken or if I was cut. "Don't get up if it hurts too much, honey!" she kept saying. Once I finally got back on my feet, I looked down and saw that there was a bunch of what looked like spaghetti sauce on the floor and some broken glass pieces. The woman kept fussing over me and said that it was "unacceptable" and that she was going to immediately have someone come clean up the aisle. Meanwhile, I stood there...in pajamas...and flip flops...and, of course, I did not shower today. I painted a very attractive picture, I'm sure.
In Tom Tort's scenario, the lady would sue the evil corporation and, of course, would lose because, no matter how good her claim, Wal-Mart has deep pockets and the "fat cat" company people would stomp the lawsuit out of the little old blue hairs.
I remember in torts thinking that it was so funny that there was an entire section on slip, trip and fall cases. But now that I am a slipper, tripper and faller, I guess its not quite so surprising. The first thing I thought, though, once the deep crimson blush faded from my cheeks and I finally got on my feet (no cuts, bumps or bruises, although I have to say my rear-end is feeling very sore at the moment) was...SUE THE BASTARDS.
But, of course, I know better. My fall was for nothing. FML.
Friday, October 15, 2010
You Can Call Me Diana,
goddess of the hunt. Today, I am back home for the weekend. Well, until Monday, anyway. Almost as soon as I got in my car and left school yesterday, I felt like an enormous weight was lifted off of me. At school, I feel like I feel constantly inadequate, like I'm always searching for something I did wrong and trying to figure out how to prevent it from ever happening again. I have so many memories that, when I look back, I blush just thinking about it. I can easily catalog every single mistake I have EVER made in law school. I never forget. Like yesterday. In my business organizations class, we had to write Articles of Incorporation and Bylaws for a fake client who is interested in starting up a clinic for providing holistic health care. She's smart, and she wanted to limit her liability and preserve for antiquity the amount of capital she (and her partner) invested in the business, and also protect her role as Superwoman and Chief Decision Maker of the newly-minted corporation. Understandable. I can sympathize with a fellow wannabe Superwoman, and I can work on making her role in the corporation as permanent and unchangeable as possible. Well, in class we had to swap our Articles and Bylaws with a neighboring group, and, unfortunately, I sit by a couple of uppity 2L girls who think that they know everything. They got our Articles and I knew they would tear them apart. Our professor--who I happen to love--gave us a rubric for analyzing the other group's work and then came around to talk to each of our groups as we did it. When she came up to us, she asked if we thought the activity was useful and I blurted something moronic like how reading it made me realize how many things I had screwed up. Probably not the most tactful. She was looking for something like, "Oh, yes, I have an intimate understanding of corporations and how to organize shares of stock to protect the managerial interests of my clients." Once again, I failed to deliver. She smiled, though, because she's a trooper and I have had one other breakdown in her presence this semester, and asked, "Ms. Wilcox, didn't your group get an A on the last assignment?" Well, Professor, I thought, that's only one success. I can think of soo many more failures. Let me list them... But no, she kept on and said, "You won't ever get anything totally perfect! I just want you to learn from it." What a nice woman. I really do like her. But, I thought, though of course by now I had realized to keep my stupid interfering mouth completely shut, how can I be satisfied with not getting anything right? Especially when all I hear is wrong. Here are a list of the things I have done wrong this week:
1. I did not save my mock client counseling session in the right place so my inept professor would be able to find it.
2. Although I showed her how to find where I HAD put it, I apparently did not do it well enough, because she still couldn't find it.
3. I showed her again, and although she was able to find it, there was something wrong with the volume for the last ten minutes, pretty much obscuring everything that I had said in the interview. Cool. Thanks, technology.
4. Deposition. Ahhh, my deposition. I would prefer not to think of it anymore, but I can't help it. In the future, I am going to make an effort to S-L-O-W D-O-W-N everything I say, not second guess my questions, and not talk over the witness. Be a friend to the court reporter.
5. I did not list our corporation as "for profit" in my Articles and it was one of the things we had to have on the rubric.
6. I forgot to print off two copies of the Bylaws to bring to class. (But I did fix this--I ran down to the clinic room and printed off copies during our break. But still. I forgot.)
7. I wrote a motion for substitution of counsel and, after my style of the case, I included a line to separate it from the rest of the document. Another lawyer did not like this.
8. I also referred to the petitioner as the defendant in the same document.
Anyway, I am home now, and I am leaving my faults behind. It's funny how much better I am able to sleep when I'm here and how much less stressed I feel. It's like a few days of freedom before I return to prison. Okay, I'm exaggerating. They don't have pepperoni rolls in prison. But apparently, in Moundsville, they serve lobster, according to my post conviction remedies professor... but I digress.
Today my analysis will come from a different form of footwear: Muck boots. Today I will shed my traditional footwear (flip-flops and Converse for everyday, but pumps on special occasions, client interviews, court appearances, oral arguments, etc) in favor of my hunting boots. You haven't known me to be like this yet, but in fact I am quite a different person when I come home. Andy and I hunt and fish a lot in our spare time, and this weekend is no exception. Today, I have a date with a brand new ladder stand that Andy put in a prime sniper position on my great-grandmother's property (now belonging to my grandfather). It is his personal goal to get me to shoot a deer with my beautiful Mathews bow. My newly pink fletched arrows are primed and ready to go. Number 3 has been flying awfully well in the last several months. I outfitted her with a broadhead (and a few others, just in case). She and I are going to sit in the treestand and hope for success on some front. I would really like to have success somewhere, at something.
When I do, you can officially call me Diana. I really like to be the goddess of something--especially since I'm definitely not the goddess of law school.
1. I did not save my mock client counseling session in the right place so my inept professor would be able to find it.
2. Although I showed her how to find where I HAD put it, I apparently did not do it well enough, because she still couldn't find it.
3. I showed her again, and although she was able to find it, there was something wrong with the volume for the last ten minutes, pretty much obscuring everything that I had said in the interview. Cool. Thanks, technology.
4. Deposition. Ahhh, my deposition. I would prefer not to think of it anymore, but I can't help it. In the future, I am going to make an effort to S-L-O-W D-O-W-N everything I say, not second guess my questions, and not talk over the witness. Be a friend to the court reporter.
5. I did not list our corporation as "for profit" in my Articles and it was one of the things we had to have on the rubric.
6. I forgot to print off two copies of the Bylaws to bring to class. (But I did fix this--I ran down to the clinic room and printed off copies during our break. But still. I forgot.)
7. I wrote a motion for substitution of counsel and, after my style of the case, I included a line to separate it from the rest of the document. Another lawyer did not like this.
8. I also referred to the petitioner as the defendant in the same document.
Anyway, I am home now, and I am leaving my faults behind. It's funny how much better I am able to sleep when I'm here and how much less stressed I feel. It's like a few days of freedom before I return to prison. Okay, I'm exaggerating. They don't have pepperoni rolls in prison. But apparently, in Moundsville, they serve lobster, according to my post conviction remedies professor... but I digress.
Today my analysis will come from a different form of footwear: Muck boots. Today I will shed my traditional footwear (flip-flops and Converse for everyday, but pumps on special occasions, client interviews, court appearances, oral arguments, etc) in favor of my hunting boots. You haven't known me to be like this yet, but in fact I am quite a different person when I come home. Andy and I hunt and fish a lot in our spare time, and this weekend is no exception. Today, I have a date with a brand new ladder stand that Andy put in a prime sniper position on my great-grandmother's property (now belonging to my grandfather). It is his personal goal to get me to shoot a deer with my beautiful Mathews bow. My newly pink fletched arrows are primed and ready to go. Number 3 has been flying awfully well in the last several months. I outfitted her with a broadhead (and a few others, just in case). She and I are going to sit in the treestand and hope for success on some front. I would really like to have success somewhere, at something.
When I do, you can officially call me Diana. I really like to be the goddess of something--especially since I'm definitely not the goddess of law school.
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