Ho, Ho, . . . forget it

Merry Christmas Eve! Are you working? I am! Luckily, it's from home. And luckily I have a case of writer's block of the I-don't-know-enough-about-this-case-to-write-a-good-brief variety. I'm really not complaining though because I thought the work situation would be much worse than it really is. And I could theoretically not work at all over the holidays, but I fear the consequences of that decision.

So far I have had a decent December. The weekends have mostly been all mine. Got my shopping done mostly on time. I like how "mostly" has become sort of the best I can hope for these days when it comes to my personal life.

Today I would like to send a shout-out to Jennifer Love Hewitt. She was raked over the coals recently by a celebrity tabloid so skeezy that even I won't read it (okay, I might read it, like at the salon, but I wouldn't ever buy it, unless they were out of Us Weekly and People) because she's an untoned size 2. Of course, I think it's cruel to splash unflattering images of any woman across the pages of a magazine for the purpose of us all having a good laugh at her expense. But I would like to thank her for bringing to the public's attention the little-known fact that chubby comes in all shapes and sizes. Even a humble size 00 can have an impressive jelly roll across the middle and battles the belly button shadow that inevitably happens when gut meets a cotton t-shirt. Some of us just come in small packages, and I don't know know why we don't expand. But, cut us open and do we not bleed cheese? The answer is yes; some of us do, in fact, bleed cheese (and assorted preservatives).

Yes, I'm too busy to post

Apologies to all ten of you who read this blog for the radio silence. I've been working like a demon lately and when I'm not working, I'm slumped on my couch trying not to think of anything but the crap I'm watching. I'm ashamed to say that the most substantive thing I've read since starting work is a few issues of Vanity Fair. And I even find that to be taxing. Still trying to figure out this whole work-life balance thing. I'm fairly convinced it's a myth.

But I'm not complaining. Work so far is good. I mean, it's not like I'm being counted on to crush a witness anytime soon or anything, but it's about what I expected, in a good way.

Now for today's random observation. I'm reading some article about these people in a remote part of India. Apparently it's a majority-Christian population, but there's a percentage of the population that thinks that its people are descendants of one of the lost tribes of Israel. Cool with me. Who says one of the lost tribes didn't make a turn somewhere and end up in India? Anyways, the article is really annoying because it keeps saying that these people think that they're Jews. Granted, I don't technically know the rules about being Jewish and I'm pretty sure I can't turn around tomorrow and declare myself Jewish (could I? I really don't know the rules here). But what's up with qualifying these people's religious beliefs by saying that they think they're Jewish, especially if they've been doing this Jewish thing for a while now? I find it off-putting.

In other news, I've been shopping like a demon lately; all bargains, though. I questioned the hubby's need for a new jacket, saying he already had one. He proceeded to open the hall closet and count my jackets. I maintain that they're good for work;a jacket hides the fact that you really are wearing your favorite $20 t-shirt to work. There's nary a windbreaker in the entire collection. But I still felt a little sheepish.

crappy music made crappier

Given my taste in music, I'm barely ashamed to admit I like a Fergie song. But I do. The slow one that's good sing-a-long stuff in the car. What I don't like is when I think I hear the song, but it turns out to be some shitty techno/hip-hop remix. I mean really, what's with the need to take a perfectly good song and add annoying and weird club music on top of it? I'm not going to say that I get dance or club music (or whatever it's called), but why, God, why do it badly and why do radio stations play this crap?

I'm officially a married woman. The wedding went off almost without a hitch and I only had to pull a bridezilla once (and for a very good reason). I got a little stressed out here and there, but 2 hours before the wedding I was laying in my bed at the hotel with my sister and sisters-in-law watching Say Yes to the Dress. My dress fit perfectly - I could eat and barely breathe. My awesome Stuart Weitzman's didn't really start to hurt until the end of the night; pretty good for four-inch heels. Not too shabby, I'd say. Not that I ever want to plan a wedding ever again. Or a party, for that matter. I took the Monday after the wedding off (okay, I did some doc review on the couch) while the hubby worked diligently on school stuff. I've been working lawyer hours for the past week, including some good time at the office this weekend. Good stuff, though. And hopefully I won't screw it up.

Oh happy day!!

So I worked this weekend. It wasn't all that bad - just a few hours each day. And the people we were working for were kind enough to verbalize their appreciation. But that's not the good news. My red shoes are here! And they are awesome. Even better, my new purse arrived today. Black croc. With three distinct pockets, which will hopefully help me avoid the whole black hole thing. I will be delighted when I can get to work and manage to find my badge to get in without having to set down my coffee, put my purse on the ground, remove my wallet, checkbook, hair brush, and planner, and finally dig out my badge, which was in the side pocket all along. And it was 40% off. I am the idiot those marketing people have in mind because, you see, when I use a coupon or take advantage of a deal, I'm not spending money so much as I'm saving money. And I am the greedy, materialistic consumer who keeps our economy chugging along. Just doing my patriotic duty.

Yours is cool, too

Know what I don't get? When people get put off by someone's belief that their religion is better than someone else's. Now, I'm not talking about people who walk around talking like they've got a some sort of direct line to Saint Peter and somehow knows who's on the naughty or nice list. But just someone who believes what they believe and happens to also think that they're right. I saw some guy on the news who was apparently put off not only by the fact that Mitt Romney is Mormon, but the fact that the Mormon Church thinks it's the one true church. I mean, is this something to be horrified by??* Don't most churches think that they're the bees' knees?? And why shouldn't a Mormon think his faith is the right one? I mean, if he thought the Catholics had it right, he'd probably be Catholic and not Mormon.


That's enough for serious thought (and by "serious," I clearly mean making a superficial observation on a subject that I am normally loath to engage). Today was jeans day at work. The firm does these things during charity fundraising drives, letting us pay five bucks in exchange for wearing jeans on Friday. I always pay because I bought some cute Citizens of Humanity jeans that I don't get to wear enough because it's pretty rare for me to wear jeans on the weekend that require heels and, now that I'm working, I can't really wear them during the week, either. And no one likes to see cute, over-priced denim go to waste, especially when there are so many starving children. Bottom line is that coma-inducing doc review is always better in jeans. I don't think there's another jeans day for a while. Apparently I could maybe wear jeans every Friday if I was in IP. You know, because if you're smarter than everyone else, you also get to be more comfortable. Thanks for that P.R. degree, U.T. (a B.S. in P.R. = priceless).


* At least if the person horrified is a member of a church that thinks it's the one true church? Many people may very well be horrified at the notion of religious people thinking that their beliefs are the absolutely right ones. But I never understood the disbelief of religiously minded people at the notion that others can believe in their own thing just as strongly as someone else believes in something different.

Something will go wrong

All the wedding stuff has been too easy as of late. I ordered my food over the internet. We figured out the centerpieces (cheap buckets from IKEA plus pre-made bouquets that eliminate the need to arrange). I got my shoes - a pretty sweet pair of Stuart Weitzmans. I found Jamie's ring on eBay (and it's not some divorced guy's ring with all kinds of bad chi in it). I still have to figure out dessert and buy booze. And I think that's it. Surely it's not this easy. Surely something will go wrong.

I also found a pretty sweet pair of red, round-toe, patent leather pumps. They caught my eye and screamed for me to buy them. So I did. Only bad part is that the store didn't have my size, so they're being shipped to me, which totally eliminates the instant gratification thing. But the shoes are pretty awesome, so I'll make it. I've been trying to kick the quality of my footwear up a notch. If I'm going to insist on wearing heels that will eventually give me corns, bunions, and a little hammertoe, they should look high-end. But I can't go super high-end and the levels of ridiculousness involved. I mean, I'm sure Christian Louboutins are great and all, but I'm not spending 2 car payments on a pair of pumps. One car payment, maybe. But two is just silly....

Made of goo

I sometimes say that I'm made of cheese and preservatives on the inside. I decided that I wanted killer arms for the wedding, so I thought I'd do some push-ups to get a little more cut. Jamie and I bet $5 over whether I could do 20 push-ups (and not the kind where you're on your knees). Turns out 2 was just about all I could handle. So I guess I really am made of cheese and preservatives. It's really quite sad. I want to get into some kind of shape, but I haven't quite figured out how to work it into my schedule. One of these days.

The good life . . . for a week

The first week of work wasn't bad. I got my Blackberry and I'm not popular enough that I actually need it yet. So I learned how to play Brickbreaker. The best part was watching UT kick Rice around DKR Stadium from the firm's sky box. Apparently someone couldn't make it to the game, so I got the last-minute call. I'm pretty sure low-on-the-totem-pole associates don't really get to experience the sky box, let alone, first-week associates. So the law firm gods smiled on me this week. Except for when they made me see, while walking to the game, the zillion sorority chicks in denim mini skirts and cowboy boots. That kind of sucked.

Ummmmm, yeah . . . well

I have nothing to say. I could regale you with tales of the last 2 1/2 weeks, but there's not much there. I always hate taking time off because I know that it's both time to relax and time to get stuff done. I've been a little busier than I thought I'd be during this little vacation, which is good. But then I feel like I didn't have enough time to just sit on my ass, which is bad. But then when I sit on my ass, I think I should be doing something, so I lose either way. I start work on Monday, so I guess I can look forward to having a reason to shower before noon.


Although I have nothing of value to say,* I'll say some stuff anyways. Turns out the cleaners that tried to rip me off were as bad as I thought they'd be. A cashmere sweater on a wire hanger? Thanks for the shoulder nipples... I mean, maybe Joan Crawford made the point a little too forcefully, but she had a point. They folded my other sweaters, but not well, so now I have a big crease across the back of each and not even right down the middle. Who doesn't know how to fold in thirds?? And the crease on my pants is quite a crease - like there's cardboard inserts in there. I'm not saying I'd sue the cleaners for $54 million, but I can almost sympathize with the guy who did....

*I'd talk about politics, but then the only thing I'd have to say is that Huckabee intrigues me, but people who have no chance of winning always do; I'd also say that all politicians are shit and I can't be persuaded to think otherwise. Yes, I am a cynical woman, a woman without a party, without a candidate, and without patience to listen to this never-ending campaign of one-liners and assorted shallow claptrap.

Alternate universe

I am living in a Twilight Zone episode. I have been hosed by apartments and landlords to the point where I pretty much expect to be ripped off. The shoe is now on the other foot. My landlady for my most recent apartment gave me back all of my deposits before I left, asking that the place be as clean as it was when I moved in. Seeing as how I moved in to find the old tenant's unwanted food in the fridge, used soap and toiletries in the bathroom, and random crap in the closets, I didn't think the cleaning was too tall of an order. And I'm not the type to take my deposit back and just leave the place a mess. So I cleaned. I scrubbed. Even on one of the days when there was no power and it was a zillion degrees in the apartment. I got an e-mail from the landlady today saying that I left the place in a hideous state. Tried to make me feel all kinds of guilty about taking her money. She must be one of those chicks who is disgusted by anything that doesn't reek of bleach. No way her kids will grow up to be normal. I bet they have weak immune systems because their mom won't let them near pollutants. Anyways, I know I cleaned and it doesn't really matter - she's the sucker. I have $800 and she's keeping $30 she was supposed to pay me for some crappy used furniture and $50 the new tenant paid for my air mattress. I'm still up $720. Tenant 1. Landlord 0. It's about damn time.

I've been running around doing errands for a week. Kinda tiring. Looks like I'll mostly be a lady who lunches for the next two weeks, though. Tomorrow I'm going to a "how not to fuck up your interview" panel. I'm one of the people giving advice. Clearly no one told the CSO lady who invited me that I actually blew like five interviews before I actually got hired.

T minus . . . oh shit, the breakdown's here

My whole goal has been to plan a wedding so that nothing could really go wrong. All I want is to friggin get married and have a party. Apparently, bridezilla lives within all of us. Or at least it lives within me. I was supposed to meet with the crazy lady's assistant today. When I got there, she was M.I.A. and the crazy lady couldn't meet with me,* so she said I had to reschedule. Apparently this was all it took to send me straight over the edge - convinced that these people would ruin my wedding. I talked to the fiance and hung up on him when he suggested that there wasn't a whole lot we could do at this point. Jenn reminded me that nothing could go so wrong as to ruin my wedding. Ann counseled that I shouldn't commit to doing anything until I've calmed down. I was about to call Abbey and then I realized that I had wasted Jenn's time at work and that maybe Abbey had work to do. So I e-mailed her. Turns out everyone was right and I'm just crazy. I won't even write about the dress drama. Let's just say it involves me at a boutique crying to the sales people that I'm not that bride - you know, the crazy one. But clearly, I am.

Thank God for the future SIL. Some internet surfing for shoes, a few drinks, and all is well. Love ya, Ellen!!

*She apparently had a mediation and her lawyer was there. All I could think of was how I told her someone would sue her ass and how she got all mad at me for saying that. Karma sucks, don't it, beyotch??

Going to the cleaners . . . getting taken to the cleaners

I just dropped an insane amount of cleaning at a cleaners close to the new place. If my experience dropping this crap off is an indication of things to come, I have a feeling that I will be driving 20 miles out of my way to take my stuff to my old cleaners on S. 1st St. that I loved. When I first walked into the new cleaners, it was abundantly clear that the woman working the counter has a very limited command of the English language. Fine, whatever, it just takes a little longer than normal for her to get my phone number. And about five minutes for her to get my name into the computer.

Then I pull out the button-downs that need to be laundered. She tells me, "dry clean, same price." First of all, I doubt it's the same price. Second, I want them laundered and pressed, not dry cleaned. They're cotton; I only take them to the cleaners because I am insanely lazy and like a pressed shirt. I relent because the language barrier prevents me from understanding what she's getting at. Do they not launder? Are my shirts too small to be laundered? I guess they'll be dry cleaned.

Then she goes through and counts everything. Lots of cardigans since I apparently can't live without cardigans. I look at the receipts to see that everything is there and I saw that she rung up three dresses (at like $20 a pop). I point out that there's only 2 dresses. She picks up the dresses plus a silk empire-waist top and says, "this is dress." Yeah, if "dress" means "flowy and over-priced," then it is a dress. However, seeing as how this thing barely goes past my hips and the word "dress" has yet to encompass anything flowy and over-priced, it's still a shirt. It takes a little while to communicate to her that the shirt is not a dress. I'm pretty sure she was pretending to not understand me. When she finally relented and changed it on the order receipt she seemed all put out, sighing and whatnot, like it was sooooo unreasonable for me to not want to get gouged any more than this place is already gouging me.

I hate change. And this experience shows that I am right to hate change.

Home sweet home

We made it to Austin on Saturday night after a 15-hour trek. I got us through the first three states and Mr. Raisins was in charge of getting us through Texas. All in all, it was relatively uneventful. We sedated the cats for the drive. Opie was stoned as hell. I think maybe he was over-medicated - the vet told me to give him a pill and a half every four hours in light of his girth. We decided he'd had enough after his second dose. Pretty awesome to watch, though. He drools a lot when he's sedated and it sort of forms a drool beard. Nice.

Lap of luxury

My bed is gone. My couch is gone. I have an air mattress. It's kind of a nice air mattress, but it's still an air mattress. I have consolidated my living space and am now existing in the living room only. It sort of looks like a flop-house. With a flat-screen.

I'm working my last weekend here. Which blows. Oddly enough, the clerk I'm partnered with for this group of cases got one that sounds just as bad as mine and he's here, too. So I would have been hosed either way. It makes me feel a little better to know that I'm not suffering alone.

My latest nomination for "this person should be fired" - whoever wrote the little news blurb for CNN this morning that informed me that the 10th death in the Tennessee heat wave raised the death toll to 11. I'm still trying to figure that out.

Happy, then sad

Happy to go home in a week. Sad to be leaving the best job ever. Happy to get to do new things. Sad that those new things will probably be tedious and boring. Really, really sad that my last case here is a clusterfuck and I'm at a loss after more than a week of working on it. I think I've typed one sentence for my memo and I think it says what the standard of review is. I've never felt dumber in my whole life. Even when I took income tax. But I figure going out with a whimper isn't all that awful. It's not like I got fired.

In other news, we went to BFE, Maine for Ann & James's wedding. It was pretty, the weather was nice, the wedding was fun. Ann looked fabulous in a gorgeous Melissa Sweet confection that pretty much reminded everyone that she's tall and thin enough to pull off a drop waist (or maybe I'm the only one who (a) knows what a drop waist is and (b) knows enough to know that I can't wear a drop waist).

I finally got my turn at the library for the Clarence Thomas biography that came out in April. I'm about halfway done and, so far, it hasn't annoyed me as much as I thought it would. I've heard a ton about the book, but I'm reserving judgment until I'm all done with it. I'm gearing up for the real deal this fall and I can't wait. No comments from the peanut gallery, especially anyone wanting to say, "but I thought you were a liberal." I was just fooling you.

Zen moment

Thanks to the weather in Dallas, I get to wake up really early tomorrow to fly home. Normally getting to the airport and having to stand in line at the ticket counter for almost an hour would put me in a bad mood, and finding out that there was no way for me to fly out until tomorrow would put me over the edge. But not today. Someone must have slipped something into my drink. Or I've seen enough episodes of Airline to know that there's nothing the poor person behind the ticket counter can do when the weather shuts down the hub you're supposed to fly through. So I gladly took what I got and went back to the awesome new apartment. The closest I came to getting pissed was seeing the people who think they're too good to stand in a long line try to sidle up to the ticket agent, playing like their cancelled flight is just something that can be taken care of really quickly. Like the other 100 people in line aren't experiencing the same problem. Unless you have a lung in a cooler that was supposed to fly commercial, you're not too good for the line. I also got annoyed when I was right at the front of the line and the geniuses in front of me were trying to haggle with the ticket agent like they were at an open-air market. As if the ticket agent was going to make seats just magically appear on some flight or make the weather in Dallas better. The best part is that I get to go to work in jeans tomorrow since I have to be at work immediately after landing. That will be fun. Tennis shoes and jeans in chambers is a no-no where I work. Unless you're me and it's tomorrow. Good thing I actually have some shirts here; otherwise, I'd be choosing between my Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky, Keep Lexington Lame, or Texas Law t-shirts (all dirty). Sad when you're burnt orange expression of school spirit is the classiest thing you have to wear.

The new apartment is great. Turns out I don't like having movers. I felt really bad just standing there watching these people pack up my stuff. I offered to help, but they said I'd just get in the way. And some feat of physics meant that I was unable to get all the paper back into the boxes after unwrapping everything that was packed. How does that happen? How was it that I could unpack like 50 glasses and not then be able to get just the paper back into the box? Turns out having stuff wrapped with care is just a pain in the ass. By the end of every box, I was waist-deep in paper. The guys come to uncrate our table top tomorrow and then the process of moving will be over. Yay!!

Big weekend

Leaving for the Big D for my 10 year high school reunion. I will get to see my lovely fiance, although he will most likely be bored out of his skull. It'll be good to see the girls from high school. Normally we only ever see each other at weddings and the most recent wedding was in May, so it's not like it's been forever since I've seen them. But it's always a good time. There will be one girl there from our circle who sort of dropped off the face of the planet for 10 years. So that should be fun. She was the hot one in the group - the one who you wouldn't go out with alone because that invariably meant cute guys would want to talk to her and the dumpy friends of these guys would want to talk to you. Good times. The part of me that still sees the world through junior-high eyes would like to see some bitches who tanned too much and now look like hags. I don't know where this comes from since I got off relatively easy when it comes to being on the receiving end of adolescent cruelty. Which is amazing given my appearance in junior high and the beginning of high school. Anyways, I have my dance routine all ready in case a Romy and Michelle opportunity presents itself. I have a feeling I'll just stand in a corner with the women I know and love and occasionally fake a smile for someone I vaguely remember. Good times will be had by all. Except my lovely fiance. But I'm sure the sheer joy he will experience by seeing my lovely face will make up for everything.

The eyebrow lady was awesome. So although I may be walking into this shindig with some fucked up hair (bangs were such a good idea in theory), at least my eyebrows will be rockin'! I was a little disturbed when I was at the salon because I heard some woman talking about how she was waiting for her daughter to finish with the eyebrow lady. The daughter comes out and she can't be older than 10. What 10-year-old is even thinking about their eyebrows, let alone thinking of getting them threaded? I have a feeling the mom might have encouraged this. It all reminded me of a disturbing episode of Sunset Tan (I watch it purely for anthropological research purposes) where this woman spends like $1200 to prevent her young daughter from looking pasty in school pictures. The saddest part was when the mom actually encouraged her daughter to get the "Lindsay Lohan" and the poor kid came out looking like an oompa loompa. Might as well save that cash for the therapy your daughter will need to correct the damage you have done to her, lady.

Over it

Life's good. The difficulties created by the existence of choice notwithstanding, I am very aware of the fact that I have nothing to complain about. And I'm grateful for that. Not that this knowledge always prevents the mopes; the mopes happen. I just give myself a very short window in which to mope. One evening and that's it. Over it. Done.

Getting my eyebrows threaded today. I recently realized that my eyebrows don't match. Neither eyebrow is a disaster, but they look like they belong on different faces. Let's hope the famous Fatima does right by me.

Complaining

So the stupid Live Earth extravaganza ruined my Saturday night. No Suze Orman for 2 weeks in a row. And this weekend it was all for a bunch of spoiled celebrities who probably traveled on private jets for shows that had a "carbon footprint" the size of John Mayer's head. I like my Suze Orman. Partly because I always feel a little better about the sorry state of my finances when I hear some of the things that other people manage to get themselves into. I may be broke and swimming in debt, but it's all under control (or it soon will be under control; thank you, clerkship bonus). I'll admit that the idea of actually having extra money after rent and bills are paid freaks me out a little. I'm used to being broke. I know broke and I can do broke. What I don't know is disposable income that needs to be grown into something I'm supposed to retire on. I don't know what to do with it. Not that I'm complaining about it (despite the title of this post), it's just new for me. I need me some of that private equity.... I don't know what it is, but it appears that it involves rich people.

I'm also going to take this opportunity to complain about choices. Choices make things difficult. They make you sit there and evaluate what you're doing when you don't have much of a clue to begin with. I haven't had to make too many big decisions in the last few years and limited options tend to make the decision pretty simple. In college, I had all of two job offers, only one from a stable firm; easy. The price difference between UT and law school in NYC made the law school decision really, really easy. The clerkship thing was pretty much a no brainer - I took the offer I got (and it turned out beautifully - bonus). Picking a law firm wasn't that hard. So, I'm facing choices for the first time in a long time. And I don't like it. It upsets the natural order of things, i.e., inertia. I really have no idea what I'm doing. Thank goodness the fiance is an expert at talking me down to earth. Which is good. Otherwise, I'd just have to join the circus. I know I shouldn't complain about having choices. It's a dumb thing to complain about. But it's what's been driving me nuts lately. So there. Maybe next time I'll complain about the fact that the half pint of ice cream that I'm eating every night doesn't seem to be helping me put on any weight.

A proposal

Hair stylists should make the client do their own hair after it's cut. That way, the client knows whether she'll look like a tool when she tries to do it herself. My current style, which is sort of layered on one side (thanks for those layers I didn't ask for), and a bob on the other (couldn't even bother to make each side match, huh?), is proof positive that God gets angry when you cheat on your stylist. Of course, when I left the salon, my hair looked fine. But, lo and behold, after a shower I discover that the new do isn't so hot when stlyed by yours truly. I'm not Vishnu, I only have two arms, I can't wield some big-ass brush and tame the cowlicks that cover much of the back of my head. I know that I could probably go back to this woman (if I could remember her name) and ask her to fix it for free, but this just makes me wonder if I wouldn't leave with a more fucked-up hairdo. So I made an appointment with a stlyist that has a client I know (and she has cute hair). His name is Troy, which I figure is a good sign that he's probably got talent. I'd honestly be scared to go to some guy named Bill. Because a hairstylist named Bill = mullet.

What's the difference between all wheel drive and four wheel drive? If four wheels are driving (or whatever), isn't that all of them, so is it the same as all wheel drive? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do get ripped off every time I go to the mechanic.

Consumer report - Christian Dior cream to powder foundation = totally awesome. Light and lasts all day. I'm in love. And the lady was all slick, showing me one eye with concealer and one eye without. Turns out, I have large, nasty bags under my eyes. Who knew? So I'm a chump. With bright eyes.

Good thing

It's a good thing that my office windows don't open. If they did, I'd have to jump out since I just deleted the contents of the memo I've been working on for two days. Granted, it wasn't a long piece of work and it wasn't a particularly hard memo, but it was just about finished. I had even italicized the citations. I normally hit control+S like some trained monkey. What the hell happened? And what the hell good is automatic back-up if, from what I can tell, it doesn't save your ass if you close the program and tell the program, "No, thanks! I'd like to redo all of that work, so don't even think of saving those changes!" WordPerfect and Word should really ask you twice if you'd like to save your changes. If you say no, large rabid-looking creatures should dance around asking if you're really, really sure you'd like to discard all the work you've done.

I need cat food. Maybe I'll just drive my car into the front of my local Kroger store. That should relieve some tension.

Very, very important question

Has anyone eaten at Ruby's BBQ on 29th? No, not Rudy's. Ruby's, with a "b." I need to know if it's decent.

In case I was getting at all worried about my slow approach to 30 (which I actually wasn't), the huge, throbbing zit on my face makes me feel like a kid again. I just need some awesome braces and a perm and it'll be like the good old days.

What's in a name?

I was watching tv last night and the news was talking about the winner of the UK's version of some talent show that I don't watch here in the states. The guy is an opera singer and his name is Paul Potts. Now, when the anchor first said the name, I was thinking to myself, "hasn't Pol Pot been dead for a few years now?" So I can't help but wonder what made this man's parents name him Paul. I mean, would the Schmalins name their kid Joseph? I hope not.

Early to rise . . .

Makes for a really, really long day. I woke up at like 7:30 this morning, which is highly unusual since I'm generally a marathon sleeper on the weekends. According to the fiance, my capacity for sleep is of Olympic proportions. I only mind waking up early because it makes for such a long day and a lot of time to waste.

Not much is happening here. Shocking, I know. You'd think that living in a mid-size city in the middle of the country with two cats and practically no friends would produce many an anecdote. But, no. But I only have about 2 1/2 months left here. I love my job, but I'm excited to get back. Going to work, maybe not so much. But someone's got to pay for the lavish lifestyle to which I will become accustomed. You know, like having DVR and more than one pair of work shoes. The fiance and I will be supervising the move into a new apartment at the end of July. We managed to find an Alexan in BFE, which is good for the fiance's commute. I'm sure the folks at the Alexan will be happy to rip me off when the time comes to move out, but all apartment complexes exist to rip people off, so I guess there's really not much to be done about it. And at least my apartment won't have cabinets made of plywood and the water might actually work on a daily basis, which will be cool. Although I'm sure my fiance will miss all the dog shit people leave laying around at our current place.

In other news, I have reached a hair milestone. I can manage a tiny, sad ponytail. It's been more than 10 years since I've been able to manage a ponytail. Kudos to me!!

She works hard for the money

Man, I am on an efficiency streak this week. I actually feel like I can handle the upcoming surge in workload over the next six weeks. Of course, talk to me in three weeks about what I just said and I'll probably give you the finger (hell, I'd give some of you the finger just for shits and giggles, no matter what you said).

I'm off to C-town this weekend to see KO. We almost took a trip to D.C., but plane tickets were well above the "oh crap" price threshold for both of us. Gas ain't cheap, but it won't cost $700 to drive and see her. Should be fun. At least more fun than spending the weekend talking to my cats in a perpetual state of needing a shower. Sometimes, I think living alone is cool because I can let myself go and no one sees or cares. And then I realize this is also the dark side of living alone. Do it long enough and you don't realize that you've let it creep outside the home. Sure, one trip to the grocery store with no bra and PJ pants isn't a big deal. Then it's the mall; maybe you start looking a little shabby at work. Before you know it, you just look like shit and forgot to care.

In other news, Mario Claiborne is dead. I didn't know the guy, but I have been eagerly awaiting the Supreme Court's decisions in Rita and Claiborne. I don't generally eagerly await Supreme Court decisions. Sure, I find some of them interesting and I try to keep with what's going on, but I'd be lying if I said that, as a general matter, I eagerly await the decisions (okay, maybe one a year). But I was very eagerly awaiting these decisions. Claiborne's dead, his case is moot, and my heart is breaking. Who knew I'd ever be this interested in sentencing...

And Pam Anderson's boobs are fake, too

Apparently Britney may have messed up one of her "comeback" shows. People were apparently shocked, *shocked* that Britney wasn't really singing and booed her. Are these people like the dumbest people alive? Does anyone go to a Britney Spears show expecting her to sing? These are probably the same people freaking out because Ashlee Simpson dared to fake it on SNL. I'm a huge fan of shitty pop music, I'm not gonna lie. But at least I know that most of what I hear is brought to me by the magic of digital....

Speaking of shitty music, I can't handle the rap song where the guy just keeps saying "this is why I'm hot." Does he ever get around to saying why he's hot? I can't make it that far along in the song to find out. I'd sort of like to know why he's hot (it sure as hell isn't the crap he calls a song). Or is he really just being coy, keeping people wondering why he's hot? If so, it's working, since I want to know why he's hot.

I recently saw on E! News that shorts are the hot trend of the summer. Isn't that kind of like saying that coats are a trend during the winter? Is it a trend if it's a staple? Sure, you can have a more specific trend - the bermuda short, for example. But as I recall, the story featured long shorts, short shorts, pretty much all kinds of shorts. This is not a trend.

Happy Birthday!

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 28 and totally forgot it was my birthday until the fiance called early in the a.m. At first I was wondering why he was calling me so early, and then I realized that it was my birthday. I've never been huge on birthdays; don't know why. I actually quite like getting older because it seems to bring more confidence and a sense of . . . hell, I don't know. Goodness... I think I was about 30 when I was 20, so maybe I just feel like I'm finally catching up. Although I don't generally celebrate my birthday, my future in-laws, family and co-workers made it an awesome day. Long story short, they saved my awesome registry dishes from discontinuance purgatory. And the co-workers filled me with cookies and cupcakes. Awesome.

Today we took a field trip to a historical Shaker village. I couldn't quite do the whole tour. I mean, do I need 45 minutes of tour to know that the Shakers didn't have sex and clearly did not believe in comfortable furniture? Maybe that's why there's only three Shakers left in the United States. I tried to watch the informational video, but I couldn't sit on the bench for that long. I hate to complain (wait, no I don't; I love to complain), but assless people like me can only sit on a hard bench for so long. I guess I should have thought to bring a hemorrhoid donut or something.

I keep seeing these commercials for people who were rejected by eHarmony.com. It sort of makes me wonder if I would be rejected. Or what kind of man the all mighty algorithm would do with someone who's pretty smart, talks like she was raised in a Dallas mall, and who can shake a room with a good burp. Not that I'm looking (clearly), but I just wonder what it takes to get rejected. From an online dating site. Is that like someone saying that you're incapable of being a match for anyone? Ouch. That would sting.

Today's random thoughts

"Real women have curves." Not all real women. Just the curvy ones. I realize that women are fed totally contradictory messages about their weight ("Love yourself! But losing a few pounds never hurt!"), but is constant trashing of small women really necessary? Oh yeah, and people really should know that when stores come out with size 00 (leading inevitably to a media freak out about all of us anorexics), those stores have, in all likelihood, just taken every other size down a notch (the "new" 00 is really the old 0, and all the other sizes have gotten bigger, so that she who was a size 6, is now a size 4).

One of the side effects of a prescription sleeping pill, I'm told on the commercial, is drowsiness. Is that really a side effect? Isn't that sort of like saying that a side effect of birth control is difficulty conceiving?

I have discovered why I love my still-new-but-worn-twice-now dress. It's apparently cool enough that men feel compelled to compliment me on it. It must be special if a dude is going to actually utter the words, "I really like you dress," to a total stranger that he's not otherwise hitting on.

Tip for the day: The word "shyster" is thought of in some corners to be anti-semitic (although people apparently disagree about whether this perception is warranted). Just thought I'd put that out there to prevent anyone just tossing around that word in front of a few Jewish colleagues. Because that's not mortifying. At all. Oh wait, it's totally mortifying.

Still alive

The wireless network I've been mooching off of went away. So I am left to while away my weekends and evenings with no internet. Every wireless connection in range of my apartment requires a network key. Paranoid bastards. I put up a note by the mailboxes in my building to see if any of the tenants in the other three apartments had a network they wanted to share - I'd pay them money, they'd let me mooch. No takers. Paranoid bastards.

I'm in Austin for another wedding. And a hair appointment. Good times.

Nothing exciting has been happening. I managed to walk over 2 miles to get to a doctor appointment only to discover that the insurance company had the wrong address and that I had the wrong day. Sweating for nothing is really super-awesome. And, given my sad physical condition, my legs were sore as hell the next day. You know it's sad when you put on your heels and, all of a sudden, everything that was aching feels normal and okay.

I'm upset that the latest trend of the season is the sack, er, tunic. As a woman of slight stature, I know I don't look good in sacks. I can't imagine that any woman looks good in a sack, even if you cinch the sack. I saw some chick at the airport yesterday wearing some oversize button down, cinched with a big belt, tight capris, and four-inch platform heels. Two words for this ridiculousness: Peg Bundy. Let's forget about the fact that you're traipsing through the airport in platform heels. But you're wearing a cinched sack! It's not okay!

In other news, congrats to Chris for deciding on UT Law! Yay debt! Yay selling out! Big money no whammies!!

Monday? Boo!

I wasn't really in the mood to work today. I did a quick look at the calendar and it looked like it was okay for me to not really feel like working. Last week, when I was the last one in the office at like 5:00, but couldn't leave because I don't pay for parking (and don't carry cash, so couldn't pay if I wanted to), I took a little nap in my office until I could leave at 6:00. Man, I am so going to miss my job. Not that I don't work hard. I do work hard. Even some weekends and the occasional late night. But it's nice to know I only have to get my work done, with no clock. I used to be billable. My desk was always covered in sticky notes with client codes and time spent on stuff (inevitably, I would go to do my time like a week later and couldn't figure out what my sticky notes said). That sucked. Not so much looking forward to doing it again. At least I'll be making more than $400 a week this time around.

I flew to Austin for a whirlwind of activity this weekend. My calves are always sore after I fly. For a while I totally thought I had deep vein thrombosis (thanks, mom, for always reminding me to get up and walk around on the plane to avoid sudden death). I couldn't figure out why my legs always hurt. Then I realized, to my horror, than I was probably sore from walking through airports with a huge purse-bag, dragging my suitcase behind me. Walking makes me sore. I am that out of shape. Horrifying. So I bought some mini cupcakes at the grocery store to make me feel better about the fact that walking makes me sore. Yummy.

Shopping therapy

I broke down and went to get new shoes tonight. I opted for my standard issue black heels. No fun here. Move along. I can't wait until I can shop again. Although it helps that the mall shopping here sort of sucks, so it's not like there's too much temptation, at least when it comes to shoes. I also bought my first black belt in almost 10 years. Although I eat as much as I used to, I've managed to lose a little weight since I moved here, which means all of my pants are too big. Without a belt, I just feel like I look dumpy and sloppy, constantly hitching my pants up. Now I just need to get some ass implants to make my pants really fit.

I'm currently avoiding my book in favor of my latest issue of Vanity Fair. It's the green issue. Not that I don't love mother earth, but the green issue gets on my nerves just a little. I'm sick of hearing about carbon footprints and carbon credits. I'm not going to lie and say I know what I'm talking about, but the whole carbon credit thing seems like a scam to me. Like a way for rich people to have heated pools and not feel bad about it because they bought their carbon credits, people who apparently feel that they don't have to actually sacrifice for whatever it is they claim to fervently believe in (unless driving a Prius counts). Broke people like me have the best plan to reduce our carbon footprints: turn the heat way down (or off), even when it's cold, and just walk around wearing fuzzy socks and two pairs of flannel PJ pants (make sure that you don't create a little pocket around your nose when you pull the covers up; I got a little fuzzy-floaty one night when I did this). Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Al.

Breaking all the rules

I refuse to abide by the gazillion different rules for addressing envelopes. No nicknames. Why would I call Tom "Thomas"? He's not Thomas, he's Tom. Unmarried couples that live together can't have their names on the same line. Why not? Some of these people are practically married. Order of names. There's rules for that, too. Screw it. Hopefully, my friends won't notice that I don't care about this finer point of etiquette. And if they notice, hopefully they won't care. And if they care, they have been hiding this side of themselves from me. I bet they also secretly know all what all the little forks and spoons are for, too. I say boo to these weird rules.

And the envelopes will be addressed in my shitty handwriting. Because, yes, I will admit to being too budget-conscious to hire a calligrapher for envelopes that will be thrown away. I find it interesting that it's considered uncouth to use a printer and a nice font when addressing envelopes. It apparently communicates to your guests that they aren't important enough for you to take the time to address the envelopes yourself. But hiring someone to address them for you says that, although you didn't take the time to address the envelopes yourself, you paid someone to do so. Whaaa?? I think that some calligraphers' union came up with this rule of etiquette. I bet Miss Manners was on the take when this little gem came to be a rule.

Why?

It's April. And it's snowing. WTF?

Small victory in my stupid little war

I think I played a role in preventing a woman from choosing my wedding place to have her wedding. I feel good about this. It's the little victories. Sure, some other sucker will wind up going crazy dealing with this woman, but I'd like to think that I just helped ensure a more pleasant wedding-planning process for someone else. I better get karma points for this. Or at least the good karma better balance out whatever bad karma will flow from trash-talking this woman.

The weather got shitty last night. I was all excited about wearing the new black peep-toe pumps. I got to prance around in them for like a week, but I guess I'll have to put them away for a little while. But my standard black heels are making the click-clack sound that tells you that the heel is worn down to the nail. I think I'll keep click-clacking around for the time being. I can make it work until I can bust out the peep-toes again.

Is it just me, or is Lou Dobbs an ass? He seems to complain and complain about government and yet appears to advocate for more government. That's like saying more crack will help me kick my addiction to crack.

I am woman

Hear me roar. Or cry. Like a little baby. I tried to use the epilator last night. I patiently grew out out the leg hair until I resembled a yeti. I took a hot bath, as this is supposed to open the pores and dull the pain that comes with ripping out all of your leg hair by the root. After about 2 seconds, I quickly discovered that the epilator is less a hair removal option than a torture device that I intend to tell the people at gitmo about. Forget waterboarding. I'd sell out my own mom to avoid the epilator.

But I don't give up that easily. I thought about topical anesthetics and called my sister so she could tell me about my nonprescription options. Those options are expensive. Then I remembered good, old-fashioned ice. So I systematically numbed small sections my legs with ice and then proceeded to voluntarily use a device that rips the hair out from the root. All in all, I think it worked out well. One day, I'll actually be comfortable spending the money to have all of my leg hair lasered off. Until that time comes, this should work out well.

Bring It On has to be like one of the best movies ever made.

Feeling smart

I was watching The Girls Next Door, and Hugh Hefner was giving his girlfriends their Christmas presents. They all bust out these fur coats and Hef makes a point of telling the ladies that the coats are faux fur. But when he said "faux" he pronounced the "x." So, he was trying to tell them that no animals were harmed in the making of the coats, but I wonder if they were confused about what happened to the foxes who maybe died for those coats. I may not know how to say "inane" and I may have mispronounced "Suffolk" today. But I know how to say "faux." Yay smart me! I can say stuff in French! Sing with me: I am so smart, I am so smart, S-M-R-T.*

I've had a headache for the past few days. Combine this with the fact that my descent into Houston last weekend had me feeling like someone was stabbing me in the face and back of the head with an icepick, and I am afraid I'm developing a sinus infection.** To the walk-in clinic!

* If you don't recognize this reference, you can't call me dumb.

** I'd like to thank my co-clerk for reminding me that my headache may have another cause and then telling me about the guy he knew in high school who had headaches and then found out he had a brain tumor.

Kicking my own ass

I was talking to my sister and relayed to her that she and the other half's sisters will play the crucial role of keeping the wedding lady away from me on my wedding day. Of course, my sister asked why I didn't just take my business elsewhere (the wedding lady did offer to give me back my deposit, but only a little more than half of the total deposit because she didn't offer to give me back my room deposit; how gracious of her, really). I explained to my sister that, dammit, the place is cute and I don't want to let this wench just get rid of me. I will have my charming wedding and this person will not be allowed to ruin it. Apparently, I have some point to prove. And I apparently will prove this point by giving this whack job thousands of dollars of my hard-earned money. Oh wait, I'm a tool. Yes, I am a big, fat tool.

Of course, planning a wedding from out of town is pain in the ass and trying to find something six months out would probably prove tricky and would introduce a whole new level of pain-in-the-ass-ness. And I wouldn't have enough hotel rooms. So, there is some logic behind my decision. But still . . . At least I can comfort myself with the thought of plastering the internet with reviews of my experiences. Maybe a little Seven on Your Side? I used to know a producer at Fox Seven who worked on these stories. Hmm.....

In other news, the weekend in Austin was fun. Lunch was lovely, happy hour was girly, and my dress rocked. I liked showing up looking different because then people tell you that you look great. I don't know how great I look, but still, what else are people going to say? "Hey! You look different!" I know people who would say that without the requisite follow-up about the greatness of the new look, but luckily I didn't see them this weekend. So people told me I looked great. And that was fun. Although some people seemed to have put a little oomph into it, leading me to believe that I have spent the last few years looking like a lesbian tree-hugger.*

*No offense intended to any lesbians, tree-huggers, or lesbian tree-huggers out there. Work it, ladies!

For fuck's sake

The wedding lady tried her hardest, but she did not succeed in ruining my weekend. She did establish herself as just flat-out, fucking crazy. She also came frighteningly close to canceling my wedding because her relationship with me isn't positive enough. Apparently, when I commented that I was concerned about her apparent lack of organizational skills and complained about the fact that she almost doubled the price of one of her services, this was rude and uncalled for. She thought that we "needed to approach things in a new way." Fuck you, lady. Seriously, I think she's a shady asshat, but I've made it clear to her that she'll get her money, even if she doesn't have a legal leg to stand on in demanding it. Apparently she needs to know that people like her; otherwise, the relationship isn't a good experience for her. Like we have to hug it out before the experience is something that she sees as beneficial. Shit, lady, all I want from you is a place to have my wedding. I don't need a guru, I don't need someone to lean on or call to shoot the breeze with. Take my money and get as far away from me as possible. And the best part, the part where I came really close to either punching her in the face or storming off to find the closest dog poo to set on fire and toss on her porch, was when she bitched at me for not respecting her as a businesswoman. When it takes me three voicemails and three e-mails to book a fucking hotel room, when you keep confirming that I have six hotel rooms when I have seven, when you e-mail me to see if I could maybe mail you my paperwork because you don' t have it, when you just decide you can raise prices whenever you want, I'm sorry if I haven't treated with whatever respect you think you have earned. For fuck's sake lady, get over yourself. Go stroke a crystal or do some yoga, chill out, and shut the hell up.

Word of mouth is a bitch and so is karma. And this nutjob deserves whatever fate has planned for her.

Enter Bridezilla

I think I yelled at the lady at the wedding place today. She seems to be a few fries short of a happy meal. Like someone who has smoked entirely too much weed (and doesn't have the brain cells to spare) and used to be something like a textiles artist, but who got an inheritance and thought it would be groovy to run an inn in Austin. So, a little wake-up call in the form of an annoyed, stressed out woman was in order (you know things are bad when the place e-mails you so that you can send them a signed copy of the agreement thing since they don't have it; problem is that I don't either). And I was just the woman to do it. I feel better. Normally I feel guilty when I yell at someone who has done me wrong as a customer, but not today. Of course, the last time I felt guilty about being a bitch, I got free stuff. But I don't think there's free stuff in my future with this place, so no need for results-oriented guilt.

I'm getting excited about Austin this weekend. Quality time with the better half. Hair will be done. Lunch will be had. Happy hour will be happy. And the TLR banquet. True, this event may not sound exciting (okay, so it's not), but I get to wear a new dress, so I'm excited. And the better half in a suit. Nice.

Field trip today at work. Which meant I managed to get about five minutes of work done. Which was awesome!

What I learned today

When walking around in your boy-shorts waiting for the self tanner to dry so you can put your pants back on, might as well put on some strappy high-heel sandals. Calves look better, knees look less ugly-knee-like, butt looks more impressive. All in all, doing the shoe thing makes the inevitable stroll past the full-length mirror more tolerable. Apologies to anyone for whom this post resulted in a brief, frightening image of me in my boy shorts. But get over it, since at least I'd be wearing the shoes, which makes the image a little more tolerable.

Credit - disaster waiting to happen or genius plan?

I got my wedding credit card. Since I can't actually afford my relatively inexpensive wedding at this very moment, but will be able to pay for it when I get back to Texas, I got a 0% interest credit card that should allow me to pay for this shindig interest-free and then pay the sucker off. Some people might say this plan evidences irresponsibility on my part. But I don't think I know those people, so who cares. Bonus - it's a Disney points card. Since I have this thing with wanting to go to Disney World, it makes like a smidge of sense. Of course, I'll no doubt have to spend like $100,000 before it's worth anything. So maybe I'll hit Disney World when I retire.

Turns out, I'm a "bride elect." I got a shower invitation recently and I noticed this term. I don't think I've ever seen it before, or I've never noticed it. Either way, I sort of like the sound of it. It makes it sound like there was a run-off and the bride elect won. Which then makes me wonder what sort of competition it was. Because if it involved the wifely duty of sitting on my ass watching television, I'm pretty sure I won. And who voted? Was it majority-rules, or did the groom-to-be get to use some sort of super-vote to make the ultimate decision? Either way, it makes me feel like I won something. Which is cool, since I never win anything.

For all you saps out there, I have an announcement: My sister is playing host to a cute stray dog that needs a home. It's a middle-aged lab who apparently just sits there. Doesn't get on furniture, good with other dogs, housebroken. Just wants to sit at your feet. I told me sister that if the dog just sits there, she should keep it. Not like it's extra work on top of the other two dogs she has. She apparently fails to see the logic, although I understand her reluctance to drive to Minnesota with three dogs. So, if you've been thinking of getting a dog, but maybe you feel like you're too lazy for one that actually requires effort, I've got a keeper for you.

Bring the pain

I did it. I ordered a glorified version of an Epilady, one of those things that rips hair out by the roots. I figure that a few tatoos and piercings establish that I have a respectable pain tolerance. I decided to take this step after being cold for months. I'm cold at work. I get home and I'm cold. I'm cold all the time. And I'm one of those lucky ladies for whom cold = goosebumps = speedy hair regrowth rendering attempts to keep clean-shaven futile. Although I get the feeling that the mens out there will dismiss this discomfort, I ask them to imagine an awesome case of razor burn being agitated all day long over half of their bodies. Yeah, it's that awesome. I guess it's a good thing that I'll be trying this while I live alone. Because, although I will be wearing shorts and will be otherwise clothed, I have a feeling that the physical trauma will be akin to bad naked. Don't want to scare him away before it's legal.

Road warrior

Back in town after spending the week in the big city for work. The drive home was nice since the weather was great. Although it took me like 45 minutes to figure out that my seat warmer was preventing the A/C from cooling me down. It occurred to me this week that I should be taking notes on some basics of appellate advocacy, so I can remember all the things that people do wrong. This week I saw what happens when trial lawyers attack. I don't have a thing against trial lawyers (and when people say it derisively, it makes me wonder whether they understand that there are two sides in a trial). But treating a group of appellate judges like it's a jury is decidedly a bad idea. And should you have the misfortune of ever doing an insurance case, make sure you provide handy definitions from a medical dictionary. Because seeing a bunch of latin words doesn't make anyone say, "Aha! There's a discombobulation of the hemostaphocenis! Now I know who should win." Instead, some poor soul is trolling through a medical dictionary trying to figure out what you've just said, and cursing you.

Now for a picture. I got my dress back from the tailor lady today. All redone to fit me. Copious amounts of self tanner will be required before I actually wear it in public. I can't remember the last time I wore anything that was above my knee. I don't know that the picture does it justice - it's silk and fits great. And if people think I'm wearing a dashiki, so be it.

I got nothing

Sorry to disappoint the three of you who come here looking for a little entertainment (because my life is so, um, entertaining), my life is more boring than ever. I took my dress to the tailor this weekend, thinking it would be a quick alteration. When I tried on my dress the first time, it was too big, so I got the store to get me a size smaller. Oops. Still too big. But I thought it was no biggie, a quick $30 alteration and I'll be good to go. Not so much. The little lady at the alteration place looks at me and says in her unplaceable accent, "this dress does not fit; is cute dress, but does not fit." (Be sure to roll your R's when you say this in your head.) She guesstimated that it'll be more like $75. On top of the fact that I shouldn't have bought the dress in the first place, this news hurt. But not enough to convince me to return the dress. I figure if I wear it to 2 things, I will come out ahead since I have a weird celebrity attitude about dresses - I don't like to wear them more than once. Which makes no sense given that I'm broke.

I also confess to buying spray tan in a can online this weekend. The reviews of the product I found online were good, so I thought I'd give it a shot. After a rather involved application process, the overall result wasn't bad. Not orange, easy to blend. I'm trying a new lotion on my legs to see how it works since I wasn't keen on the clean-up required when using the spray. I'd be happy to go with a milky white look; but my legs are more along the lines of pink (or blue if I'm cold). That's not cool.

Bring on the hotness

I'm not hot. At best, I'm probably cute. Assuming I've showered, done my hair, and put on a smidge of makeup. But I love getting older because the "I don't give a shit what you think, I look hot today" feeling is easier to come by. Call it the Sharon Stone effect. I just bought a new dress that's great for some upcoming events and weddings. It involves colors other than black or dark brown. It's knee length, which is shorter that what I normally would wear since I generally hate my toothpick legs. It's got a pattern!! And I can't wait to wear it. I'm even starting to appreciate my legs. That's going to be a harder, slower process.

She's just a little slutty

So apparently, one of the chicks on American Idol who isn't that good is maybe featured in some racy pictures floating around the internet. Her best friend, who tried out but didn't make the cut, has come to her defense by telling a paper that her friend is "the least slutty person I know." Now that's a friend. That's like saying to someone who's having a fat day that she's one of the least fat people you know. Not saying you're not fat, just one of the least fat. I mean, she might be a little slutty, but less slutty than a lot of other people.

Busy weekend full of all kinds of busy. All of my savings are gone with one measly deposit. Luckily, I was able to put the other deposit on a credit card. Nothing like a little deficit spending (on a credit card that was balance-free at that) to induce the desire to eat an unhealthy number of Girl Scout cookies. But it's okay since I had a spinach salad for dinner. It all comes out in the wash, right? I was going to work tonight, but I decided not to. This decision will probably prove to be a mistake given the amount of work I have staring me in the face. But I figure the worst that could happen is that I actually have something to do this weekend. That'll be new.

Come back to us, Brit!

I'm with Craig Ferguson, so I won't be mocking Britney Spears. I'll admit to loving her brand of pop music. Seriously. Don't hate (and I know you secretly sing along when "oops, I did it again" comes on). Come back, Britney!

Now on to people I will mock. Kim Jong Il's birthday was last week. The crap that comes out of the state-run media is funny until you remember that it's the result of a totalitarian regime run by a delusional midget. Here's one discussing some symposium about the man:

Pyongyang, February 14 (KCNA) -- Symposiums on the undying feats performed by Kim Jong Il were held by working people's organizations.... The speakers profoundly explained the imperishable feats performed by Kim Jong Il for the times and history, noting that his birth was a great auspicious event which opened a bright prospect before the continuity of the Juche revolutionary cause and accomplishment of the human cause of independence. They said Kim Jong Il, genius of thought and theory, scientifically formulated the revolutionary idea of President Kim Il Sung and steadily developed it in depth to meet the demand of the developing revolution, thus clearly indicating the road ahead of the times and humankind....

Hmm, those are indeed some feats. Good thing they were "profoundly explained."

The crap that comes out of DPRK reminds me of the episode of Friends where Joey discovers the thesaurus in Microsoft Word and goes to town. I wonder if it's taxing to write like that. Now, I shall profoundly explain the highlight of my weekend and my Tuesday:

The undyingly impeccable You Like Raisins bested many inferior women as she found the bargains at the boutique sale that outshone profoundly the cheap crap found by the women against whom she was competing. Her notable success at the sale once again highlighted that the majestic You Like Raisins, with her perfectly Godly straight hair, has reached the pinnacle of awesomeness and that other women have no hope of besting her in any of life's ventures. Including the pulling off of the skinny jean. Nor have the incompetent men around her fared better. It is well-accepted that the genius of You Like Raisins has had a profound effect on the development of American federal law and she single-handedly makes sense of illogical claptrap and divines a perfect solution to every case that comes before her that at once follows the established law while making it a glorious and brilliant beacon for all justice-seekers the world over.

Yeah, it is taxing to write DRPK-style.

Coping seven different ways

Last night was rough. I had a slight case of the blues for a number of reasons. So I parked on the couch with a pint of ice cream, a box of Girl Scout Cookies, and two episodes of What Not to Wear. I think I felt better, if not fatter, when I went to bed.

Then I woke up early this morning for the big multi-boutique sale at the Shriner's Temple this morning. Nothing cheers a girl up like shopping, especially at a sale. Two Michael Star t-shirts for about $30 and a pair of AGs for about $50. And I will admit that I think my jeans come really close to being skinny jeans. At least I know a boot won't fit in there. When I tried them on at the sale I was mostly paying attention to the fact that they're a little snug (nothing a few lunges across the apartment can't fix). Then I got home and realized that they're not the cut I'm used to. But I think they're sort of hot (I needed a good reason to buy some cute peep toes anyways). So I guess my lack of attention to detail while shopping has forced me into a trend. I'll wear them with the girls next time I'm in Austin and see what they say. They better tell me I'm hot.

I got my dress today! I think I love it. It's a little big, so I had to sort of hold it right to get it to look like it fit. I'm liking what I see. I'll be modeling it for my sister and the future s-i-ls next weekend to get a final green light. But so far, I think eBay has worked out well for me.

News from the "what the fuck" department: Britney Spears has shaved her head. I can dig a chick with a shaved head - if you're hot you'll probably be able to pull it off. But if you're a little puffy from all the water you've been retaining because of all the boozing you've been doing, a shaved head probably isn't the look that's going to work for you.

Cookies = love

My other half showed me up on Valentine's Day. We were talking about the fact that its Girl Scout Cookie season and that I had yet to stumble upon cookie sales. I checked the web site for the local troop or cabal, or whatever the local organization is called, but it was unhelpful. I opened my door to check the mail and, lo and behold, a dozen boxes of Samoas.* Just for me. Someone loves me! And I love him. So much that I sent him a card.

I hate living in a basketball town. For the second week in a row, Criminal Minds was preempted for stupid college basketball. I'm still getting over the fact that last week's preemption prevented me from seeing Part 2 of a to-be-continued. Jerks.

I got my Chi in the mail today and took it for a test drive. My hair has never been flatter. Thanks, Jenn, for helping to make me prettier and shallower!

* I realize that the official name was changed to something lame like Caramel Delites because apparently someone thought it was offensive to name an awesome confectionary delight after this specific group of Pacific Islanders. But the box they came in says "Samoas" so I'm sticking with the name.

The year of the woman

Ok, so there have been like a gazillion years of the woman. Might as well add another one. The incoming editorial board of the Texas Law Review will be led by two, count 'em, two women. It's so enlightened. It's so 2007. I don't know these girls and I sort of feel sorry for them in the way that you feel sorry for people who voluntarily take on jobs that eat up their lives and personal time. But it's exciting for people like me who give a crap about stuff like this. I am sure that there are about two people like me give a crap and read this thing. Not bad for a readership of ten.

Better him than me

My fat cat has dandruff and it's pretty gross. I'm betting that it's a combination of cat chow and the fact that Opie is too fat to groom himself properly. So, I guess I'll have to start shelling out money for the good cat food (damn it; I don't like the idea of the cats eating better than me). I don't really know how to make Opie lose weight. My old vet used to harp on me about his weight, but then had no advice for how to keep a husky cat thin in a two-cat household. The vet I've been using for the past few years just seems to accept that Opie is a big fellow. Like a plus-size model who shouldn't be forced to lose weight.

I've been looking at the goodies that getting married promises to bring me. The wedding's pretty small, so it's not like I'll be able to set up a hotel or anything, but the idea of having nicer stuff than we have now is exciting. At some point, I was all, "I can afford my own stuff, I don't need to register." Screw that. I want high-thread-count sheets. I want soft towels. I want shams that match my lightweight, pickstich quilt (not the one we have now, but the new one we'll get later). I want a coffee maker with a timer. I want, I want, I want!! I don't think I've ever felt this rabidly greedy before. I'm not sure if I should feel guilty about it. I don't really want stuff that's that nice. Just nicer than what I have now. Which, depending on what we're talking about, isn't saying much.

I am debating the whole china thing. My sister registered for china and then returned it all. Part of me likes the idea of having the nice stuff for special occasions. The other part of me totally doesn't understand why I would need two sets of dishes. We're not fancy people. But maybe we'll get turned into fancy people without knowing it. Of course, if we wake up one day to discover that we're fancy, I guess we could always rush out and buy china then. We could then lie to our kids and say we got it when we got married, but that it's just been hidden away. That way, whichever kid inherits the crap will have some romantic idea about the history of the nice dishes.

competitive nature + eBay = recipe for disaster

I bought a wedding dress today. Probably not the smartest thing I have ever done. I had seen a dress that I loved, but it was $2000 (this would be over my budget) and sold out (which is good since I can be bad with budgets). But then I see a sample on eBay that I could snap up for less than $1000. So I did. I think part of the reason I did this was because at least 10 others were watching the dress and I just could not let some bitch get my dress! Anyways, I feel this may not have been the smartest move since I haven't tried it on. The color may look awful on me. It may make me look short. Who knows. But I guess I can put it up for sale should things not work out. But hopefully it will be awesome. Unfortunately, I paid using PayPal without noticing that my PayPal account was linked to an old checking account that has $2 in it. So then I got to run to my bank and pay $25 for a wire transfer so that I can pay for the dress. And the only reason I could afford the wire transfer was because my rent check hasn't cleared yet. I can't wait to have money. Planning a wedding while living paycheck to paycheck sucks.

In other wedding news, I think I have found the coolest wedding reception favors ever. I'm probably spending too much on them. But my mom offered to pay for them. Considering that my better half and I are paying for the wedding, I think I just may let her. We'll see. Either way, my wedding guests will walk away with a little something that makes them think that I'm like the coolest bride ever. Which I am.

I made an appointment to look at a place in Austin that has good wedding location potential. It looks nice on the web and doesn't appear to be outrageously expensive. I still wouldn't mind having it at my friend's house, but then I get overwhelmed thinking about renting tables and chairs and linens, etc... I figure that, at the end of the day, it may be just as expensive to have the wedding at the house. More expensive if pain-in-the-ass considerations can be translated into dollar amounts.

Did anyone see the Emerald Nuts commercial with Robert Goulet on Super Bowl Sunday? I thought it was hilarious and when I'm tired at work, it's fun to say that Robert Goulet is stalking me. Apparently some people didn't think it was funny. These people clearly don't have office jobs.

Snow shoes?

Well, it's been snowing here. Nothing too bad in well-traveled areas like parking lots. But about two inches in my driveway. I'm annoyed mostly because it's really cold and I am keeping my apartment cool to save money. It wasn't until I moved here and saw my first winter gas bill that I understood why people would accept free heating oil from Hugo Chavez. Keeping warm is expensive. I'm also annoyed because I can't wear my normal shoes to work because the snow is too deep. Which means I have to wear boots. And I like my boots. It's just that they don't really go with most of my pants. Granted, it's just about guaranteed that no one at work has even noticed that I am wearing boots and not regular heels, let alone questioned whether the boots go with my pants. But I know. And it's killing me softly. I was pretty sure before, but now I am certain - seasons are totally overrated.

Wedding planning has gotten easier. My future sisters-in-law are saints. They actually want to help me plan this madness. And I get the sense that they enjoy stuff like this. Knowing that they're there to help makes the whole process seem doable and I'm getting excited about it. Hopefully I can settle on a location when I am in Austin later this month. I'll also go dress shopping, which is what I am really looking forward to. I have a good friend who happens to do invitations for a living. I have put out feelers to photographers. I feel like it's becoming manageable. Today I started thinking about registering for stuff. This is kind of hard because it requires imagining myself as a domestic diva of sorts (and by "domestic diva" I mean someone who uses cookware or kitchen gadgets other than a microwave). I don't really know what a proper kitchen requires. I figure I'll cook at some point and some things will come in handy. I just don't know what those things are.

A tightwad's worst nightmare

I sort of thought about wedding planning this weekend. This whole industry is such a scam. My parents got married at a church and had punch and finger foods at grandma's house. Now, we have somehow been brainwashed into thinking that you just simply can't do it right for under $20,000 ($40,000 on the coasts). I must admit, it's brilliant that the players in the industry have managed to do for the wedding what DeBeers has done for diamonds. I visited theknot.com, a website that's just not for people like me. When I searched for "casual" or "inexpensive" or something like that, there was some article about how smaller weddings have to be even more perfect since a smaller group means more chances for people to notice all the little ways your wedding sucks. I was sitting there trying to think if, out of all the weddings I've been to, anything actually horrified me. Deciding that, no, nothing ever had horrified me, I determined that my friends and I are either really laid back or just total white trash. Either way, it's cool with me.

I found a place where I could probably get in and out for under $10,000 for maybe 60 guests. Then I laughed at the fact that I was sitting there thinking, "hmmm, not a bad deal." And then I wanted to cry. But I did find a nicer version of the classic party barge and thought to myself, "this is perfect." So we'll see. If the party barge idea is a no-go, I might end up on an island somewhere. The only thing keeping me from eloping is the fact that I want an awesome dress that I look great in, and I want people to see me in said dress. A little self-centered? Absolutely. But my shrink said that the twenties is a totally appropriate time to be a little selfish. As soon as I have kids, I can see this being a problem.

A random parting thought. Okay, so I understand that there are some sickly looking ladies walking the catwalk. And it's pretty disturbing to think of someone being 5' 9'' and weighing like 110 pounds. But why is the phrase "size 0" code for anorexic bitch? I think it was Spain that's telling stores that window displays shouldn't have small sizes in the windows. Um, what about those of us who are just small? Like for real - just eating normally and not working out (or hell, eating healthy and working out in normal doses). I realize that no one is shedding tears for the hurt feelings of the naturally small. But, still...

Randomness

OK, so it's not like I live in Alaska, but the wind chill is zero and it's snowing. When I moved here, I was sort of excited about a winter experience different than that of Austin. Turns out, I don't like snow. When I have to walk in it, it feels like I'm walking through cobwebs or something. Snow getting all in my eyes and mouth. Ick.

Too lazy to make green chile sauce. Bought it in a can. Really, really bad idea. Who new that green chiles can be made to taste like liquid cardboard.

I realize that pharmaceutical companies are required to put all the disclaimer language into their commercials. But why do they try to integrate it into the conversation happening in the commercial? Like the ladies sitting around talking about birth control and the one's all "Yaz can increase the risk of blood clots or stroke, so women, especially women over 35, shouldn't smoke." It's not like I'm generally blown away by the acting happening in commercials, but this is a new low. Why not just say it really fast at the end like everyone else who has to include required language?

Sleepsurfing

I posted something last night about some dillweed who sent a nasty e-mail criticizing my citation manual. I basically called this guy an an idiot because his complaints clearly showed that he didn't know what he was talking about, despite referring to himself as something of a citation guru. I even called his law school fifth-tier.

I deleted that post at around 3:30 or 4 this morning. All week long, I have been waking up at around 2 or 3 a.m. obsessing about something that I otherwise don't think about. And I mean like straight-up awake. Not tossing and turning. Awake. And it's a new topic every night. Last night/this morning I was convinced that my karma would be tarnished if I totally made fun of this asshat, so I deleted the post. I was compelled to get out of bed, put on my glasses, walk into the living room, and get online to delete a blog post that five people would read. So weird. But you don't fuck with karma, especially when it's keeping you awake in the middle of the night. Of course, the other weird stuff that keeps me up has nothing to do with the state of my state. But you still don't fuck with karma; better safe than sorry.

I hate living in a state with an income tax. I must admit that I'm a little baffled. Although the state claims to allow e-filing, TurboTax told me that I couldn't e-file my return because there's attachments and schedules involved. My returns aren't complicated; if I can't e-file, I don't know who could. And I'm not even embarrassed to say that some of the instructions on how to calculate my deductions and credits when I've only been here part of the year are totally nonsensical.

Hazard pay?

Sometimes oral argument has the same effect that taking a handful of sleeping pills would. Especially when you're freezing your ass off. And then you have to get in the car and drive home, which strikes me as dangerous.

And lawyers from Tennessee have an interesting habit of noting for the court that they are either a member of the Tennessee bar or, more specifically, what city's bar association they are a member of. I think I have seen one lawyer from Ohio do this, and I think it was because he argued after the Tennessee people and maybe thought he was supposed to tell the court that he is in fact a member of a bar somewhere. Fascinating.

I have been watching the new salary pissing match taking place in New York. Crossing my fingers for a little spillover. But not holding my breath. Since I don't want to die.

I heard Wilson Phillips today. I sang along and it was awesome. Hold on for one more day. Werd.

New Year's Resolution, Take Two

Apparently, I am a difficult person. "Dr. Bramson lists seven difficult behavior types: Hostile-Aggressives, Complainers, Silent and Unresponsives, Super-Agreeables, Know-It-All Experts, Negativists and Indecisives." These categories seem pretty broad - you're "difficult" either because you're super-agreeable or because you're a complainer. So, basically, you're difficult if you talk? But then if you don't talk, I guess you're a Silent and Unresponsive. Nonetheless, I think I may fit into like six of them, depending on the day. So I guess I'll try to be less of a difficult person; like every day, I'll be sure not to be at least two of the types at once. Tomorrow I'll probably be a Complainer since I have to work. But at least I won't be a Super-Agreeable.

Monday I get to drive the boss's minivan. Sweet.

Thanks, mom!

I love the beginning of every new season of American Idol. It makes me want to thank my mother for always telling us kids that we could be whatever we wanted,* except singers, since no one in my family can sing. Oh yeah, and once we found out that I was bad at math, I think she said that maybe astronaut was out of the picture (and mathematician). Sometimes I feel bad for these people, but not like bad enough to stop watching or to avoid laughing. I am not as horrified by the people who can't sing as those who tell them that they can. Why would you do that to your kid or your friend? Why tell them they're good when it's clear that they're not? I mean, I think Britney Spears has shown us the magic of digital, but the people who suck on American Idol aren't as hot as Brit was like 10 years ago.

Shout out to my sister for running her first marathon! And to Ellen for running the half! The pride I feel is like what I felt when took the stairs leaving work the other day. Big milestones all around.

And to every asshat who thinks a super-loud car is awesome, you're a douchebag. If you drive a Geo or a Sentra or a Kia, you're a double-douchebag.

*I was having a conversation with my mom back when I waited tables and I mentioned the good money that a friend of mine made cocktailing at a strip club (one of the "nice" ones). I joked about working in a strip club. Clearly not connecting the waiting tables part of the conversation with the strip club part, my ever-supportive mother said, "Honey, I'm sure you'd be good at the dancing [she clearly has never seen me dance], but aren't you a little small on top?" Now that's love. Pure love.

Happy day off! What do I do?

I always look forward to holidays until the holiday actually arrives. Then I realize that I don't have much to do and there's nothing good on television. I did buy some books this weekend, so I guess I'll read. I finally finished Anna Karenina. I feel smarter now that I can say I've read Tolstoy. Maybe I'll tackle War & Peace when I retire. The weather here has been crappy for the past few days, which I think has been contributing to a funk I've been experiencing all weekend. I wasn't sad or in a bad mood. I was just existing. Which got me a little worried. Then I realized that two days of feeling blah probably doesn't mean anything about the state of my mental state. Besides, I'm guessing that it's not normal for people to be actually happy like all the time. That would be creepy.

I did experience a moment of happiness on Friday when the airline, after keeping me on hold for like 45 minutes trying to find a dinky $20 credit I have, asked me about a $200 credit from last summer. I was told back in November that this credit was lost to me and that I couldn't use it. Naturally I was pissed at the time since I was essentially giving $200 to the airline. But now I can use it, so I'm happy because I feel like I beat the airline. Maybe the person that told me I couldn't use the credit before was just lying, who knows. But I felt like I stuck it to the man on Friday, which made me smile (even if I am the man, in a skirt). Despite my happiness, I am a little mystified at the fact that the airline has to mail me the voucher and then I can call to use it. Um, you know I have a credit, you know the amount, you know I can use it for the flight I am trying to book. I know, let's add a layer of incredible inefficiency to this process by using snail mail. I'll admit that I don't know enough about the economics of the airline industry to really understand why airlines can't seem to make any money even though they're good at ripping people off. But if my experience is an indication of the inefficiencies in this industry, then I think I may get why it totally blows.

Austin, here I come!

Maybe for good in 2007. I still don't know what I am doing after my current gig ends, but I don't think I can handle a big production involving trying to replace what I lost. Besides, I am clearly tainted with bad ju-ju. Which is weird because I consider myself to be karmically sound: I don't litter, I'm polite, I almost always offer to push the elevator button for someone else even though I think pushing the button is totally unnecessary, I give to any charity that sends me free address labels, I give really nice clothes to Goodwill. Have I pissed off some higher power? Is it because I so enjoy the gossip mongering of celebrity tabloids? Is it because I spend too much time concerned with inane things like my highlights or the fact that I am an assless wonder whose pants tend to be ill-fitting? Of course, there's the possibility that this is one of those things where a door closes and a window opens, blah, blah, blah. I shouldn't be so quick to take stock.

I will have feelers out in a limited area and if nothing pans out in that area, then I'm headed back to Austin to become a Crackberry addict a year earlier than planned. I have started to look at the bright side (three words: nice ass television; and my other half). Will a firm that pays relocation expenses pay to move you from your crappy law school apartment into a nicer one in the same city? I figure the firm should accommodate such a request. It's not like I'm some Harvard punk costing them thousands of dollars to haul my stuff from Cambridge.

Onward and upward.