It's really worse than blowing up babies?

As if we needed it, license to make fun of all things Oklahoma is hereby granted, thanks to the latest federal legislator from that state to go on a homophobic rant. I thought Coburn was a little off his nut when decrying the apparently rampant lesbianism in Oklahoma schools, but Sally Kern is apparently really bat-shit crazy. Did you know that homosexuality is a bigger threat than al Qaeda?? I'd like to thank Rep. Kern for reminding me why I have never actually voted republican in a major election despite the fact that I am decidedly not a democrat. I'd like for John McCain (if he must be the nominee) to stand up and just admit that he actually doesn't give two shits about the "gay agenda," that the one thing not keeping him up at night is the "gay agenda," and that, dammit, members of the base for whom this is such an issue can go screw themselves. The two-party system blows.

Work hasn't been awesome for a few weeks, but I think it should be an on upswing this coming week. It has to. Or I might die. Last week was salvaged when I was sprung from my doc review to go to an ACL taping in the middle of the afternoon. The only downside was the new pair of four-inch heels I was breaking in that day. By the time Michael Stipe was done doing what he does, I couldn't feel my toes. But the shoes are super cute. And I think we all know that cuteness is all that matters when it comes to shoes.

Karma's sort of broken

We've all met those people who apparently feel it necessary to make other people look or feel bad to make themselves look or feel better. I'd like to think that karma's a bitch, blah, blah, blah and that surely such people don't get ahead. But I think we all know that they do get ahead and that they probably actually get quite far. At least the smart ones. Unless these people end up with nasty cases of athlete's foot that I don't know about, karma doesn't actually seem to be a bitch. And that sucks.

One more for the WTF column

Went to hang out near the finish line at today's marathon (big ups to my sister- and father-in-law for crossing the finish line, especially since the SIL's shoe was apparently filled with blood). As an homage to the runners, wore my most comfortable and sporty heels (I no longer own cute jeans short enough for flats, except for my skinny jeans, and who wears skinny jeans to a marathon??). On the way to the t-shirt tent, I spotted the Crocs truck. Featuring a photo of a high-heeled Croc. Why, why, why? You can either wear heels or you can wear Crocs. There is no best of both worlds here. Nike Air + heels = stylish engineering genius. Crocs + heels = nasty, plastic heels. You can't hide a Croc in a heel. It's very Croc-ness makes it inappropriate for heel form.

In other news, I totally rode up the elevator the other day sort of staring at this guy's butt, fascinated by its sheer flatness. It was like a pancake in a pair of pants. I felt a little sheepish until I realized that my co-worker was starting and thinking the exact same thing.

Work it!

I have to give a presentation tomorrow. On any topic I want. Which is sorta hard. I have decided to talk about why high heels are bad for you, but why I wear them every day. Turns out, unless you're rocking some orthopedics, women's shoes generally seem to be bad for the feet. So why not go for the heels? I believe in the power of high heels to make me walk like a bad-ass. I actually returned a pair of perfectly good heels the other day because they were too short. I'm to the point where I need a minimum of three inches strapped to the bottom of my feet Monday through Friday. Sure, the whole thing started because I was too lazy to go get my dress pants tailored. But I'm a convert. A true believer.

Of course, in doing my research for my shoe presentation, I stumbled across an online debate and am *shocked* to learn that I like to wear heels only because I have been brainwashed by a misogynistic culture that seeks to objectify me by making me wear shoes I can't run in. I guess I know what people with womyn's studies degrees from Yale debate and think about all day*.... Get jobs, people!! And, no, "freelancer" is not a job without an additional descriptor!

I actually read 2 books in January. Finally got my hands on the Clarence Thomas autobiography (don't hate). Then did Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield in one day. I laughed, I cried. It was super. Next on my list is Living to Tell the Tale, the first volume of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's memoirs. He's my favorite, favorite, favorite of all time. Talk to me in six months and maybe I'll have finished half the book.

* I know plenty of women's studies majors. Unless they went to Yale, I wasn't talking about them.

Too good to be true

I left work on Friday night convinced that my long weekend would surely be interrupted with follow-up questions and requests for more research, etc.... I haven't heard a peep. I'm convinced that the network is down or something because I can't possibly be this lucky, can I?

Head's up ladies - if you're old enough to vote, you're too old to wear anything that could accurately be described as a jumper. Just tossing that out there....

Wii Wish You a Merry Christmas

I made out like a bandit for Christmas. Some iPod speakers for the office, a Fergie CD (I really, really tried to resist, but she is Fergilicious), and a Wii. The Wii is pretty fun. For people like me, it's quite a workout. I am very, very bad at it, though.

The festive holiday mood went a little sour when we discovered that my fat, dumb cat was peeing in a closet. I'm pretty sure Mr. Raisins' scuba vest won't recover. The thing smells like shit. Opie is such a dumb-ass.

And now, fun wedding pics...

I love this one. I'm laughing because Mr. Raisins has just shown me his sock garters. He was very proud of his sock garters.

This picture is just so damn cute... There weren't many kids at my wedding. The ones there quickly formed a blonde-brigade and took over the swing.

I think this is my favorite of all the wedding pictures.

That's my sister helping me with my dress. I love my dress.

Why is the bride posing like that? What's she looking at? Well, the photographer told her to and she's looking at the cars pass by on MLK.

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.