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.