Home for the Holidays

Hello Friends:
Well, I am now mere hours from being shipped off to my parents' house for holiday break. I have packed my bags, checked my flight times, and checked the weather, which in true Lancaster fashion is neither fun Northern weather nor fun Southern weather, but a lovely 45 degrees and rainy. Anyway, I am writing to let y'all know that posting might be a little sporadic in the coming week and a half, but I'll certainly clue you in if anything truly exciting takes place in the land of the Amish.
Merry Christmas,
Liza

A day in the life of...

Yesterday was a remarkably bad day. I'm back to happy today, but feel the need to share my thoughts about it anyway. I blame Entergy. They started it.

11:15 pm: The electricity goes out. I frantically call Entergy, get no response, and proceed to stomp around the house cursing.

11:30: I lie in bed, audibly sighing, trying to go back to sleep while ranting in my head about how much I hate Entergy.

11:32: Max informs me that he, too, is trying to sleep. I shut up.

11:45(ish): I finally fall back to sleep.

2:55 am: Electricity comes back on momentarily. I wake up and rejoice. The electricity blinks back off again.

5:00: Max’s alarm goes off. I wake up to find that the electricity is still off. Cue the frantic dialing of Entergy’s outage reporting line. I get no response. I am now too pissed off to go back to bed, so I get up to take a shower.

5:05: Electricity comes back on.

5:05-5:45: Stand in the shower, occasionally ranting and crying with frustration because dammit, I didn’t get enough sleep and how dare Entergy mess with me when I have a final coming up. Max finally calms me down, and I feel awake enough to get dressed.

6:00: Electricity goes out again. I call Entergy and, after waiting on hold for 5 minutes, get someone on the line. She informs me that my electricity will not be back on until 10:30. I say something rude and hang up.

6:15: I leave the house, determined to get McDonald’s breakfast to soothe my anger.

6:45: McDonald’s has screwed up my order. I eat it anyway, thinking the whole time how unsatisfactory it is.

9:00: Exam begins.

11:30: Still frantically typing. I’m sure that I am failing even as I write my answers. I have the urge to cry hysterically and drop out of law school.

12:00: Exam is now over. I leave, shout “fuck” in the hallway, and get yelled at by Academic Services lady.

1:00-6:00: I drink beer and try to calm down by watching the same movie twice. My dad calls me, and I inform him that I’m dropping out of law school. He tells me that everyone hates law school in the middle of their second year. I am strangely calmed by this news.

7:30: Have semi-drunken conversation with friend about upcoming Evidence exam. Having calmed her down, I feel better, and proceed to read my outline several times, hoping to memorize it.

11:00: Go to bed and attempt to quiet brain down by telling myself over and over that I have gone to class, and will thus do fine on Evidence exam. Having adopted Zen-like state concerning exam, I finally go to sleep.

Baffled

My evidence professor has never let us miss a class. There's always a make-up. He also apparently felt the need to complete the entire syllabus. This doesn't seem all that abnormal, but by completing the syllabus, I mean that he felt the need to cram the last two or three assignments into the very last class. Those last few assignments were worth over one hundred pages of really gripping reading. I just don't understand this. I mean, is that last hour and fifteen minutes going to make me a better lawyer? Probably not. Is he going to expect us to know as much about that last class as we do about cross and direct examination, which we spent three weeks on? Most likely. Professors, let me just tell you this: with a few exceptions, students are okay with missing out on a few things. We won't be mad at you because we're not getting our money's worth. Our budding legal careers will not flounder and die because we don't everything there is to know about a given subject. I mean, seriously, there's always Bar-Bri. So just calm down. If you find yourself at the end of the semester, and there's still an assignment or two left, just let it go. We'll be fine. You'll be fine. Trust me.

Hooray for booze!

I think this is a fantastic idea. In fact, I'm going to go crack open a drink right now.

You know you're procrastinating when...

...you've just spent almost a full hour driving around looking for a McDonald's. First of all, let me just say that I would've found one a lot sooner if any of the restaurants around me were up and running. For some reason though, despite the lack of flood waters in or around my neighborhood, there is a severe lack of open restaurants. For example, it's actually impossible to get a pizza delivered to me. Second of all, in case anyone was thinking "Ewww, why would you want McDonald's anyway?" I will say this: I don't care how bad it is for me, or what's actually in one of those little McMuffins, it's damn tasty anyway.

Dear Mr. Policeman,
Hmmm, are you in a hurry? You sure look like you are. I can tell because your lights are flashing and you're driving rather erratically. I bet it's something really important and you'd like to get there really quickly. I'd sure love to help you out, but there's only one problem: we're on an OFFRAMP. You know, those things that are really narrow, where you have to drive single-file? So, seriously, I'm going as fast as I can here. How about you stop swerving around behind me and beeping at me, because I can't do anything about it. The only thing that's going to happen if you continue to behave in this way is that you're going to force me off the road, and then you'll be forced to stop and pull me from my flaming car. And that, I'm guessing, would really delay you. So, do we have an understanding? We do? Great, thanks.

Happy, happy, happy, happy

I'm totally stealing this idea from my friend LSD, because I think it's a cute idea, especially during finals time when things are a little tense. Well, maybe a lot tense, actually. So, in no particular order, here's the list of things that are making me happy, even while wanting to throw my books off of a bridge (or at the closest gunner, you know, either one).

- My three foot tall, fiberoptic Christmas tree, decorated with all five of my ornaments. It may make a weird noise when it rotates on its base, but I firmly believe that sitting in front of its sparkly wonderfulness helps me study. Seriously, I concentrate sooo much better.

- My brand new couch. As much as I love my ugly pink chair, having a whole couch to spread out on is really quite nice. Before, I mostly studied on my bed, which just made me feel really lazy. Plus, there's not much better than a nice nap on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. All the restfulness, with none of the grogginess that comes from sleeping on the bed for two hours without meaning to.

- Grey's night, and my lovely ladies in general. Who else would go to Florida on an impulse, liberally share their closet, not laugh at my bad dancing, and tell me I look nice when I really really need to hear it?

- My fantastic boyfriend. He told me I smelled like sweetness and happiness the other day, which is just the nicest thing ever.

-Retail therapy. Need I say more?

-And finally, the thought that, even if finals are coming up a little too quickly, come tomorrow I won't have to get up every morning to come to class.

Overwhelming desire to be trendy claims another victim

I know I've posted before about the evil that is leggings, but I saw something today so horrible that I just couldn't remain silent. Pink Pirate and I were innocently walking back to school this afternoon when we saw, brace yourself, a pair of knee-length, flesh-colored, lace leggings. My retinas are forever scarred. They looked like some sort of disease was slowly crawling down the poor girl's leg. Seriously, the legging itself is bad enough, but when go and add lace that makes you look like you've fallen victim to a flesh-eating bacteria, you know you've gone too far. Horrified, Pink Pirate and I walked back to school, having decided that leggings actually are the work of the devil.

Food is sexy

I read an article today on MSN that listed the writer's favorite movies about food, according to categories. I disagree with his choices, so I made my own list, sans random categories.

1. Like Water For Chocolate: granted, the book is way hotter, waaay hotter, but the movie does its best. Food is so strongly linked to emotion, which is pretty much the way it is in real life. I mean, when I feel good or bad I eat accordingly. When I think of major events or holidays, I think of food. Yummy.

2. Chocolat: the author of the article disagrees with me; he calls the movie "corny." Whatever. Anyone who looks at chocolate as a religious experience is my kind of woman. And it has Johnny Depp. Hot.

3. 9 1/2 weeks. The sex scene in front of the refrigerator. That is all.

4. Breakfast at Tiffany's: technically not a food movie, but I'm okay with that. I would skip my usual bagel for diamonds, too.

5. When Harry Met Sally: author disagrees with me here too. It's cool. The food ordering scene is seriously funny. Meg Ryan faking an orgasm in a large restaurant is probably the best acting I've actually ever seen out of her.

Looking at the above list, you may think that I'm obsessed with food, sex, and jewelry...and I'm okay with that.

Update: Have given in to urge to exercise for charity

So, I know that I posted about how the whole idea of running for charity is just nuts. I still won't be running for charity, but I have given in and decided to walk. I resisted the idea at first, because, well, it just seems silly to pay $20 to walk three miles, since I could do this for free, should the urge strike me.

I will, however, pay $20 for the chance to wear goofy leggings and drink Bloody Mary's for three miles with some of my best girls. Normally I would also eschew the leggings, but I've been told that they say "Rock Star" down the side, which is pretty damn cool if you ask me.

So, the moral of the story is this: Liza will not run for charity, and she won't generally pay $20 to do something she doesn't want to do anyway, but give her a pair of leggings and the promise of a bloody mary, and her resolve crumbles.

It's all about me, aka The Longest Post Ever

I stole this from Ann, who stole it from someone else.

(Things I've done are in bold.)
01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain (I love hiking, it’s about the only exercise that I can stand)
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula (scared to death of even the tiniest spiders)
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone (I don’t do baths, I get really bored, and I don’t like being all pruney. I’m more of a shower person)
08. Said “I love you” and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea (I'm an idiot, I thought this meant you had to be on a boat)
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise (does it count if I just woke up really early for the purpose of watching the sun rise?)
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables (Max planted a little garden in our backyard. We sort of neglect it sometimes, but it’s not hard to grow things in NOLA).
18. Touched an iceberg (Someday I’ll go to Alaska and do this)
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby’s diaper (I was horrible at it, making it the only time I ever babysat, and the last time that I’ll ever do that. Ewwww.)
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten drunk on champagne (last New Year’s, anyone?)
24. Given more than you can afford to charity (I once stupidly gave a panhandler ten bucks by accident, though)
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment (In class, at least once a week)
27. Had a food fight (I asked my mom what she would do if I threw ravioli at her and she said she would wash my face with it. I threw the ravioli, and she followed through. It escalated from there.)
28. Bet on a winning horse (I didn’t win much, but then I didn’t have much to put down)
29. Asked out a stranger (I wouldn’t even call my boyfriend first for the first few months. I’m a big wimp.)
30. Had a snowball fight
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb (I thought this said “lamp” at first)
33. Seen a total eclipse (However, when I was younger, and thus a bit stupid, I would look at the sun until I got too scared that I would go blind. It’s amazing that I still have good vision)
34. Ridden a roller coaster (love rollercoasters!)
35. Hit a home run (My lack of hand-eye coordination is embarrassing)
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment (all the time)
39. Had two hard drives for your computer
40. Visited all 50 states (almost)
41. Taken care of someone who was drunk (my ex, all the damn time)
42. Had amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
44. Watched wild whales
45. Stolen a sign
46. Backpacked in Europe (I’m not really the backpacking type. I like hotels, not hostels)
47. Taken a road-trip
48. Gone rock climbing
49. Midnight walk on the beach
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland (someday, hopefully)
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them (if I did that, I would expect the person to call security.)
54. Visited Japan
55. Milked a cow (I grew in Lancaster county, what do you expect?)
56. Alphabetized your CDs (my friend Lindsay often laughs at me for being a little OCD)
57. Pretended to be a superhero (I was a dorky little kid, and totally obsessed with Sheera)
58. Sung karaoke (badly, really badly)
59. Lounged around in bed all day (I have issues sleeping late. I got up at 10 last weekend and my first thought was “Oh my god, half the day is gone.” Apparently, I have issues)
60. Played touch football
61. Gone scuba diving (coral really scares me)
62. Kissed in the rain
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater (several times, never actually managed to watch the movie, though)
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
69. Toured ancient sites
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight (I know I’m kind of a dork, but, seriously.)
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch (just yesterday, actually)
78. Won first prize in a costume contest
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the Snake River
82. Been on television news programs as an “expert”
83. Got flowers for no reason
84. Performed on stage (I’m totally counting being in plays when I was younger)
85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. Kissed on the first date (I see absolutely nothing wrong with this. I expect a kiss on the first date if it’s gone well)
89. Gone to Thailand
90. Bought a house (my credit is so bad I probably won’t get one until I’m 50)
91. Been in a combat zone
92. Buried one/both of your parents
93. Been on a cruise ship
94. Spoken more than one language fluently (For a while, until I quit Spanish)
95. Performed in Rocky Horror (This movie annoys me greatly)
96. Raised children (I don’t like kids, seriously)
97. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over (I’ve always had a reason for moving)
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking (I was amused by the looks I was getting, actually, since my singing was quite enthusiastic)
103. Had plastic surgery (someday, probably)
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived (Haven’t been in that terrible an accident, knock on wood)
105. Wrote articles for a large publication
106. Lost over 100 pounds
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback (a flashback? Huh? Is this a drug thing, ‘cause I’m a little confused)
108. Piloted an airplane (Flying scares the shit out of me)
109. Touched a stingray
110. Broken someone’s heart
111. Helped an animal give birth (Watched it, but didn’t participate)
112. Won money on a T.V. game show
113. Broken a bone (Five times)
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a facial part pierced other than your ears (my tongue)
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery (I don't think having tubes put in my ears counts, sort of. I got general anesthesia, so I say it counts)
120. Had a snake as a pet (Jackson the ball python)
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
124. Visited all 7 continents (I want to travel a lot someday, but for now my budget doesn’t exactly allow)
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
126. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi (Love me some sushi)
128. Had your picture in the newspaper
129. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about (Apparently I must not be too persuasive, which is odd, since I’m in law school and all)
130. Gone back to school
131. Parasailed
132. Touched a cockroach (can’t be helped if you live here)
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
134. Read The Iliad - and the Odyssey
135. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating (a fish, which I feel kinda bad about now for some reason)
137. Skipped all your school reunions (I haven’t had one yet, and wouldn’t go if I did)
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office
140. Written your own computer language
141. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you
145. Had a booth at a street fair
146. Dyed your hair (I didn’t even remember my natural color for a while)
147. Been a DJ
148. Shaved your head
149. Caused a car accident (Just once, unless the count the two times that I ran into inanimate objects…I swear I’m a good driver now)
150. Saved someone’s life

Running? For charity? Are you crazy?

Scene: One of my friends, Lindsay, sent out a rather innocent email today, wondering if we would like to accompany her on a 5K run for charity, starting at 9 am, on a Saturday. The following demonstrates what happens when bored law students discover the “reply all” function.

Heddy G: Count me in! Do I get a tee shirt?

Me: I can run about a mile and half before I want to pass out. So, I’m going to vote myself out on this one. Have fun though.

Lindsay: Yes, you get a t-shirt, and for the rest of you…it’s only 3 or so miles and since I’m just getting back into the whole running thing…chances are I won’t be able to run the entire thing.

Me: Um, yeah, but there’s no way I’m going to make it the second 1.5 miles if I’m passed out on the side of the road, being trampled by the physically fit.

Lindsay claims that she is not, in fact, very fit and Heddy laughs at me, replying that her mental image is of me, passed out with a cigarette, yelling “stop stepping on me bitches!” This is probably quite accurate.

Me, responding to Lindsay’s claim: Whatever, Ms. "I have extra energy today, so maybe I'll go running AGAIN tonight, or maybe the gym." You know what I do when I wake up early enough to have some extra time to myself? I drink an extra cup of coffee.

Pink Pirate weighs in: I couldn’t run three miles if someone was chasing me with a knife, or Birkenstocks. I’ll stop with Liza Jane on the ground and we will have martinis and smoke while everyone else runs past. Perhaps we shall shout insults as well. I haven’t quite decided yet. P.S. I resent the “only” in Lindsay’s “it’s only 3 miles.”

PP then makes a list: Things I am willing to run for: Free food, free booze, shoe sale, George Clooney.

I second PP’s heckling suggestion, and she suggests some words of encouragement.

PP: “Move your asses, bitches!”

Heddy makes her own list of things to run for: free t-shirt, any of my top ten men, away from rapist, step toward 2-piece bathing suit, and kickball.

Big Booty Ho weighs in with a list: The opportunity to NOT get busted in BE for hiding behind my laptop and laughing, the opportunity to be the LAST person to cross the finish line in 5K race, behind the old ladies and the kittens, opportunity to run 5K race with a cocktail and cigarette, old men in tiny shorts.

PP: I think that we shall shout at people as they pass, esp. once I’m on my 2^nd martini. (Please imagine the cigarette, the martini, and the drunk voice. Oh, and the running clothes.)

This prompts a mental image of PP, in running clothes, on the ground, doing the drunk laugh that she does so well, while sloshing herself with vodka. Everyone starts giggling in class at this point, ducking down behind their laptops while turning red from the effort to stay quiet. PP and I see Big Booty Ho after class, who points out that we would need to move at least a bit in order to heckle the runners.

Me, in response to Booty’s suggestions: So, two options: (1) PP and Liza drink and drive, keeping a cooler full of Bloody Mary’s in the back, and driving incredibly slowly. (2) PP and Liza wait at the halfway point of the race, with aforementioned cooler, so as to provide both heckling and sustenance to fitness-crazed friends.

Option 2 won, that is until Emma came up with her own suggestions: (3) PP and Liza, wearing camelbacks full of vodka, ride bikes, drunk, swerving amongst the runners and avoiding race officials trying to kick them out. They try to give us sips without running over our toes with their tires, or (4) PP rides on my back, Liza on Lindsay's, pumping a mixture of Gatorade and tequila directly into our veins via rolling IV stands.

Obviously, option 4 won, thus demonstrating the problem of inviting the lazy and drunken to run for charity.

Studying paralysis

My slacking is catching up with me. For instance, right now I'm posting this instead of reading the case for my casenote, because it was making me sleepy, despite the fact that it's about strip clubs, and the court references New Kids on the Block many times. See, last year, everything was so packed together that I couldn't really stop. This year, it's different. Our semester is normal, not packed into 10 weeks. So, for the last few months, I've just kept saying to myself: "It's okay if I go out three or four nights this week, I still have ____ months to go before I really have to start studying." Well, now I have a month, maybe a little less. There's a casenote, and a paper, and studying for finals, and catching up on the 200 pages of EU reading that I neglected at the beginning of the semester. All of which adds up to a weird form of studying paralysis. It's like when I was younger, and my mom would tell me to clean my room, and the damn thing was so messy I didn't even know where to start. That's pretty much how I feel right about now. A sample of a typical thought process: Should I study? Well, I could, but that would entail actual thinking, so maybe I should take some "me time" and reread this trashy novel I've read five times previously. And maybe, while I'm at it, I could nap a little. Yes, napping would help. Then I'd be refreshed and better able to study.

I've become a master of rationalizing away my slacking behavior. Occasionally, I'll even refer to last year and blame my current lack of work ethic on residual burnout from the 1L year from hell. But, that's BS, since I did plenty of nothing this summer, and have no real excuse for engaging in more of it. Anyway, just thought I'd share, since I know that some of my friends are experiencing a similar "oh no, finals are coming" thought process, and slacking, like misery, does love company. And now, time to unfreeze my brain, and get back to reading about gentlemen's clubs.

Update: You can just call me Grace

I know I posted the other day about my clumsiness, and it was supposed to be funny and all, but really, it's annoying. Not even a week after dumping beer everywhere, I have just managed to kick a very full glass of very red juice off of my bookshelf. It went everywhere. It took a full roll of paper towels to clean up. So, I ask this: why, oh why, for the love of God, can't I ever just spill water, clear, easy-to-clean-up water? And since I imagine I know the answer to that question, I'll just say this: Fuck Murphy, and fuck his laws.

You can just call me Grace

I am a clumsy person, always have been. Apparently, I was not born with the gene that imparts grace to other young girls. Ever since I was quite small, I have tripped, run into things, spilled drinks and food, and generally made an ass of myself on a regular basis. When I was a kid, my mother used to say that I wore more food than I actually ate.

For the most part, I can laugh at myself and my utter lack of coordination. Fell off my shoe in front of everyone? Better to laugh with people than just be laughed at. Fell down the basement stairs and cut up my back? For some reason, it seemed kinda funny, as evidenced by the fact that my mother found me at the bottom of the steps, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. This isn't always the case, though. For example, I've broken my right arm three times, in the same place. The first time, I was only two, and I was jumping in some leaves. I'm guessing I didn't find that very amusing. The second time, I fell off a friend's deck. I'd like to think that I was a little more stoic than I was at two, but I started bawling the second I got home. The third time, I was on the monkey bars, at age ten, and just plain fell off of them. Still not funny, although I tried to tell my mother that really, nothing was wrong, I had probably just bruised myself. Slightly more recently, in high school, I was so enraptured with a boy that I was talking to that I ran head first into the glass doors of the library. Now that's just embarassing.

A few minutes ago, I dropped the last beer on the floor, causing it to spill all over the floor, my bookshelf, and my feet. The last beer people. So not funny.

Update: my brother has pointed out that I didn't just fall off the deck. It was slightly more complicated, in that my friends and I were pulling each other off of the deck on sleeping bags. Sort of like sledding, but it was summer and it was the best we could come up with. I guess that makes me a little dumb as well as clumsy.

Tainted spinach anyone?

Forgive me, please, for the following post. I just can't help it.

I was reading the newspaper the other day, and came across an article about the whole tainted spinach/E. coli thing. For some reason, Contracts 2 came back to me in a flash, and I thought to myself, "I wonder if someone could sue for breach of express warranty. I mean, it says right there on the package 'Pre-washed, ready to eat.' That's why I buy it that way, because it suits my laziness. I trusted them. I would totally sue."

So, am I right? I would have gotten around to figuring it out, but I was so horrified that I had just had that thought that I chose to start drinking instead.

Update: At least it was after noon

When I was a little girl, I was always trying to read these books that were so far above my age group and my little girl brain that it was ridiculous. I don't know what possessed me to think I could do it, but I always tried. My parents, teachers, etc. all thought that this was great. "Oh look at little Liza, isn't she such a reader." At one point, while talking about a book I was reading, my mother said "If you keep reading books like that, you'll go to Harvard" (my dream as a child was to go Harvard. What can I say? Apparently I was a nerdy kid). So I would sit there with my book in one hand, my dictionary beside me, and slog through chapter after chapter, inevitably having to look up every other word. It made for some slow reading, let me tell ya. Invariably, I would get partially through the book and get sick of not being able to understand what was going on. Did I stop? Of course not, since that would have disappointed my elders, causing them to withdraw their "little reader" comments. So I would keep going until I found a new book, allowing me to put down the tiresome beast that I'd been dealing with up until then. This behavior continued until I was actually old enough to reread the books I'd put down. It was rather frustrating, and my dominant thought was "will this book never end?"

That's how today was, long and frustrating. The only difference being that I now use Black's Law Dictionary instead of the Oxford English.

At least it was after noon

You know you're having a bad day when, while sitting at school at 12:40, you say "I need a drink." Ditto that if you think to yourself, "if only I didn't have class in 20 minutes, I could drive to the daiquiri shop, get a drink, and throw it in my law school mug."

No Parking

I don't usually have issues with my neighbors. They're all awesome people, and I'm glad that I have the privilege of living next to them. Recently, however, new people moved in two houses down and their renovations and the attendant noise/lack of parking is annoying the hell out of me. See, they have these contractors there, day and night, starting at 7:00 in the morning with a whole hell of a lot of noise. Most days, as in Monday-Thursday, this isn't a problem. I'm up anyway. Friday-Sunday, though, you gotta lay off the hammering. The noise, though, is really secondary to the parking situation. The contractors have turned my formerly quiet, easy-to-park-on street into a damn parking lot, and it's making me want to scream.

First, there's the absolutely gigantic pickup that takes up two spaces on its own. Yes, they're contractors, they need to haul things, whatever. This pickup, though, doesn't haul anything. It just sits in the parking space that I used to use and does nothing, all day long. I got so mad that I (politely) asked that the pickup be moved to the big, empty space in front of the house that they're working on. Seemed reasonable to me, but the next day the pickup was back and the big, empty space was all big and empty again. But, one truck, fine, not so bad. Then there's the car carrier, that's not actually hauling a car and just sits there all the time, 24 hours a day. Still not that big a deal, we're only missing about 3 spaces here, what with the car carrier and the pickup taking up two spaces all on its own. But, there's also the car that the carrier used to be carrying. Then there's the dumpster, the ubiquitous New Orleans dumpster. Two more spaces. Now we're starting to get to the parking lot look, and I've been having to haul my groceries/books/self the whole way down the street instead of being able to conveniently park in front of my house. But wait, there's another huge pickup, also taking up two spaces. You three freakin' contractors are taking up half the damn street and there is still a big, empty space in front of the house that you're working on! So, because I'm childish, I feel that now I have to make it a point to glare at the truck whenever I walk by it on the way to my house. The truck, of course, doesn't see me glaring, but I'm hoping that its owner will sense my rage from the backyard and feel the need to move his monstrosity. Since this hasn't worked, I decided that I would park close enough to the truck today that it would be a real pain in the ass to get it out. Hmmm, you'd think my recent 25th birthday would have had some effect on my maturity level, but apparently not. With the parking in and the glaring, I've reached the stage where I'm both exceedingly mature and passive agressive. And I still don't have a place to park.

Biscuit Ass

Just a teensy observation:

There have been any number of diets in the last few years, all with catchy names and new and improved guidelines. You know what I mean...South Beach, Atkins, The Zone, the Hollywood 48-hour Miracle Diet (right, I'd love to see that work), and so on. Well, in response to this vast array of weight loss techniques, I've heard a number of people say "What happened to the good old-fashioned 'eat less and exercise more' diet?" To all those people, I say this: I've tried it, your good old-fashioned diet, and it doesn't work for shit.

When charming isn't so charming

Normally, I’m a person who likes things that have character, or charm, or whatever you want to call it. One of the main reasons I chose my house was because it was a cute pink shotgun, and that made me happy. I didn’t want to live in a sterile condo-like environment. I wanted hardwood floors, and high ceilings, and mantels in every room. So that’s what I got, and right now, I hate it.

Apparently I forgot that moving in makes or breaks the house. You see, between Max and I we have a ton of stuff. It took the largest truck size, stuffed floor to ceiling, to move us in. Then that stupid hurricane hit, and the unpacking was interrupted. Not only was it interrupted, but it was disrupted by Max’s efforts to save our things should the neighborhood flood. I returned in January to find that Hurricane Max had upended much of our furniture and piled it on top of each other in an attempt to create higher ground. So I’m looking around my apartment tonight, and I realize that, despite the fact that our furniture is now in the right places, the overall state of the apartment hasn’t really improved all that much. It’s still a mess, and as I am main cleaner of the household, and as I have been too busy this week to engage in cleaning activities, the mess has gotten worse. Plus, the house is old, and old things are not perfect. Right now, I’m kind of wanting perfect. The pocket doors, while cute, do not close the whole way. The slightly odd hardwood kitchen floor just looks to me like its harder to keep clean. The lack of proper and coordinated furniture also is not helping my outlook, and I’m feeling quite disgruntled at the moment.

So right now, fuck charm. Fuck the hardwood floors, and the high ceilings, and the mantels. All I want right now is a sterile condo-like environment downtown, preferably with a maid to clean up after me. It also wouldn’t suck to have new appliances, as it seems that my major (and by major I mean expensive) appliances like to break all at once. Normally I would just engage in some cleaning, make the house look a little better, and thus improve my mood. Right now, however, I’m so sick of the everlasting imperfections that I just want to move.

Update: Ernesto causing heart palpitations

Have just been watching Weather Channel. Heard the words "Category 3" and "Eastern Gulf of Mexico." Did not catch the rest, as brain has shut down in self defense. Am beginning to think that birthday is a bringer of hurricanes.

Knock on wood

Yesterday, while sitting around in the student lounge with my friend Pink Pirate, I remarked that "I wouldn't mind a little tropical storm or something." See, the quietness in the Atlantic was starting to disturb me. When it's too quiet in horror movies, you know that the character stupidly creeping through the basement is about to meet an untimely death. Well, I sort of imagined the same sort of situation here, except that the Gulf is the basement and New Orleans is the main character, wading along belong sea level. I'm sick of us getting our asses kicked. Since this lack of hurricane-y activity was making me really nervous, I figured that something tiny might stave off something huge. Funky logic, yes, but it made perfect sense to me.

Then I turned on the TV this morning and, lo and behold, there on the TV was little Tropical Depression #5, which was forming yesterday afternoon even as I was babbling about tropical storms and Pink Pirate was furiously knocking on wood and telling me to be quiet. Does that knock on wood thing really work? Will #5 (set to become Ernesto) go away through the power of knuckles on an armrest? I hope so, because as soon as I saw the news, my "I wouldn't mind..." changed to "Aaaauuuggghhhh, go away!" Despite my pronouncements, I'm a big wimp. Hurricanes scare the hell out of me. I don't even really like the random midday monsoons that happen here, with thunder and lightning and huge sheets of rain that reduce the highway traffic to a slow crawl. I sit there in my car with the windshield wipers going full blast, practically wimpering, because I'm sure that the blinding rain is going to cause me to get into an accident.

Even more than scared, though, I'm lazy. Evacuating sucks. You have to wait in line for gas, for food, for cash. Traffic slows to a maddening crawl, forcing you to creep along with increasingly frayed nerves. Things take time to fix, should anything flood, and since the government is apparently as lazy as I am, that could take forever for all I know. Then there're the missed classes and the missed work, the money spent on running away to the closest dry land. Basically, it's not fun, and I'm planning on having a good year this time around.

So, Ernesto, #5, whatever your name is, go away. We don't want any of what you have to offer, thank you very much. We have enough left over from Katrina to last a looong time.

Update: more fashion-related bitching

I just realized that I completely forgot to add another fashion travesty. My list wouldn't be complete without:

5. Skinny jeans. I love it when my legs look like drumsticks, don't you?

Liza goes shopping

Rather recently, the limit on my credit card was raised. As I haven't bought any new clothes for myself in quite a while, and as the summer climate in New Orleans is rather different than that in Pennsylvania, I've gone shopping a few times in the last few weeks. However, my credit card has yet to get a workout. It continues to sit, neglected, in my wallet. This is because, on those few shopping trips, I have yet to find anything that looks even remotely decent on me.

I used to love to shop, like really, really love to shop. I still have the bad credit score to prove it. Lately, however, I really haven't been having as much luck. I may find things that I think are cute but, lo and behold, I put them on and instantly look deformed. Apparently clothing doesn't think I'm as cute as I think it is. So, without further ado, a few of my most recent fashion pet peeves:

1. Maternity-wear. I realize that it's not actually maternity wear, that "babydoll" is a better term for it, but since I look pregnant in it, that's what it shall remain to me. Mostly, it just makes me look flat-chested on top and shapeless on the bottom. Will it ever go away? Could designers at least try to make something different? Some people look cute in these clothes, fine. But not all of us do, so throw me a bone here.

2. Formal shorts. Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously, that looks good on, oh, no one. While over at my friend Pink Pirate's house the other day for some Project Runway fun, she said she'd seen a number of suits lately sporting the shorts look. I don't know what sort of office allows you to get away with this, but most do not. The look definitely doesn't say "Hire me, I'd fit right in to your conservative, old-fashioned profession." That, and shorts with a jacket is just lopsided. It makes no sense, like wearing Uggs with a mini (which, while we're on the subject, if you're that damn cold, put some pants on).

3. Long shirts. No belly shirts? Great, fantastic, about damn time. There is something known as overcompensating though. It happens when the shirt is so long that I wouldn't actually have to wear pants if I chose not to. I have small boobs and a decent sized booty. I don't think I'm deformed or anything, in fact I think I'm normal, but this looks accentuates the booty and downplays the boobs. I'm actually looking for the opposite effect. Leave some shirts long, I don't care. But maybe, just maybe, could I get a shirt that doesn't double as a dress?

4. Leggings. I look back at pictures of myself from the 80's, and I don't think about reliving the photo. Mostly, I just laugh at myself. Someone please make them go away.

I realize that some of this stuff is popular for a good reason. But, do you know what I left the mall with the other day? Flip flops. They're really cute, and I did kinda need them, but I want more. I want skirts, and dresses, and shirts that don't come down to my knees. I don't think that's too much to ask for.

Part-time lawyering

I'm starting to wonder if I'm actually cut out for working. I managed to finally find something to do with myself this summer, and so far...eh. For one thing, I seem to be allergic to staying at work for more than a few hours. Last Friday, for example, I was at one of my jobs (for lack of a better word, seeing as how I'm not getting paid) for a grand total of 4.5 hours. Not very long, huh? Thing is, I was so antsy I was starting to get irritated with the people who were coming in for our help, not really the best attitude (although, now that I think of it, part of the irritation was definitely due to the fact that most of these people are getting screwed and don't even know it. I want to shake them and tell them to stop working with assholes, get a full-time lawyer, and learn to protect themselves). By the time that 3:00 rolled around, I was checking the computer time every 2 minutes or so and, when we actually got to leave, I'm surprised I didn't actually run from the building, celebrating my independence.

So now I'm starting to worry a little. It's been my experience that lawyers put in pretty long hours. How am I supposed to prepare myself for 80-hour weeks when three hours leaves me thinking "Wow, that was such a long day"? Maybe I could be one of those work-from-home lawyers. I'm not sure that such a beast actually exists, but maybe I could start a trend. That way I could do what I like best all day, that is, drinking coffee in my pajamas, while getting some work done every once in a while. So if anyone knows of such a profession, let me know, 'cause I'm in.

Oh oh it's magic

The other day I decided to flea bomb my house, since my vet said it's been a particularly bad year for them. After I was done, I figured it would be a good idea to wash my bedding, since I'm not sure what's in that stuff. Later that night, as Max was getting into bed, we had the following conversation:

Max: Did you wash the sheets?
Me: Of course.
Max: How?
Me: (raising eyebrows) I washed them and then took them to the laundromat to dry.
Max: Oh. Is that always how it gets done?
Me: (really looking at him like he's crazy now) Ummm, yes. How did you think it got done?
Max: I don't know...magic?
Me: So little elves come in and do your laundry, fold it, and put it away for you?
Max: No, that's too complicated.
Me: So what then?
Max: I told you, magic.

There you have it folks...I'm magic.

May I take your order?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Asshat

Bush vetoed the new stem cell bill today. Motherfucker. I wonder if he'd feel differently if he were the one with MS, or Alzheimer's, or Parkinson's. That's all.

Holy crap, an adult relationship!

While I was getting ready for work today, I got a call from my boyfriend Max. He'd been offered a new position at the company that he works for, which would involve higher pay but longer hours, and wanted to run it by me before he said yes. He also has an interview tomorrow at another company and wanted my advice on some things. I was all kinds of happy that he had called me before making a decision, and promptly thanked him for being so considerate. He was a bit confused as to why I was thanking him, and explained that it was a normal thing to do when making decisions that will affect both of our lives. Not having known me since I was thirteen, he couldn't possibly have known that this sort of behavior was not at all normal for one of my previous boyfriends.

As anyone in my family will tell you, I have for most of my dating life been a giant loser magnet. Any idiot within a 50-mile radius seemed to know this, and was immediately attracted to me. Take my first boyfriend, for example. His name was Rich, and although I was misguidedly attracted to him, looking back I can see that I was wrong from the start. Unfortunately, I didn't realize this at the time, and we dated each other for several months until I finally broke up with him when he stole $50 from me to support his drug habit, of which I was completely ignorant. Then there was my high school boyfriend Adam, who my mother affectionately refers to as "donkey boy," he having behaved like a total ass when he broke up with me for my best friend. He then tried to get me back when she told him to screw off. Nice guy. Fast forward to my college years and Sean, the greatest idiot of them all. Of course, I was partially to blame for the travesty that was our relationship, having put up with him for a grand total of four years. Not only did he cheat on me, stick me with the rent half the time, and generally behave like a complete jackass, but he had a bit of a drinking problem, if by "a bit" I mean that he was a raging alcoholic. One of his favorite pastimes was to go out, get completely drunk, and call me at 3:00 a.m., having done something brilliant like get lost on his way home from the bar. He also had a tendency to argue with me when I finally found him, and then try to run naked from our apartment building (no, really. I know it sounds like I'm embellishing, but he actually did this). One night, he even managed to set our couch on fire in a drunken haze.

There were any number of random in-between boyfriends of varying degrees of stupidity, so when I met Max (our mothers set us up, mine being motivated to get me away from Sean) it was, obviously, rather a huge change to date someone who actually acted like a human being. Although he freely admits to sometimes acting like a six-year-old trapped in a man's body, he treats me like I deserve to be treated, helps out around the house, and acts like a prince when it comes to our relationship. He's also one of the sweetest people I think I've ever met and I'm crazy in love with him...Yeah, I'm keepin' 'im.

Corporations suck

The write-on competition materials for the various law journals are due in two days. Given the fact that my grades this semester didn't live up to my standards, I feel like I have to write on to make up for them. The problem with this, however, is that I'm still feeling burnt out on school and can't seem to make myself concentrate, even though I find the material pretty interesting. So it seems strange to me that I have just spent the last hour and a half researching the various greed-driven deeds of Entergy, otherwise known as the "real" evil empire. As happens every month, I get my bill online and experience a sort of hatred-fueled sticker shock when I see the astronomical amount that I'm expected to pay. This month, it was a full $150 more than my last bill, which was typically high for New Orleans in the summer. So, while researching, I find that they have just requested a 25% rate hike for their customers to help pay for storm damage, to be voted on by November 1 by the City Council, the supposed regulatory body keeping them in check. Now, I used to want to be a corporate lawyer, but have recently reconsidered, having jumped on the "corporations are evil" bandwagon. Seems that Entergy has $29 billion in assets at its disposal, $250 million in storm insurance, and earned $909 million last year alone. Seems to me that this would be plenty to pay for the estimated $718 million needed to repair the storm damage and get the company back on track. But no...instead of sucking it up, they are whining about the federal government's lack of corporate welfare options and passing the responsiblity for rebuilding onto their customers. Is it just me, or does this seem wrong? While you ponder this, I leave you with this last figure: despite the damage from Katrina, and the fact that they were in bankruptcy protection at the time (and still are), Entergy still managed to pay out a $1.1 million bonus to their CEO in 2005. Huh.

It has come to this

I love all those little lawyer-inspired things that they put in commercials to discourage people from suing. But the most amusing one to me so far has to be the one from the Orbit gum commercial where Snoop Dogg first goes to hell for his dirty mouth, then gets sent to heaven when he "cleans it up" by chewing Orbit. There at the bottom of the screen, so tiny that you can barely see it, is this:

"Dramatization. Orbit gum will not get you into heaven."

At first I wondered "who would be this stupid?" Then I remembered the cases from our first year casebooks, and I wondered no more.

Paging Dr. Me

I need to stop watching doctor shows on TV. Not because I don't like them, but because it's a continual reminder that being a lawyer was my second choice. See, I wanted to be a doctor, and it was only my perceived ineptitude at science that stopped me from jumping on the med school bandwagon. Actually, I'm not entirely sure that I suck at science. I liked Bio well enough, and was actually good at it, but Chemistry was horrible. It was only by the strength of my lab partner that I actually passed. But anyway, misguided or not, I decided to major in art history instead and, realizing that this was not a viable career path, decided that law school would be a good path. I mean, I'm logical, and analytical, and I actually like to do research, and it's interesting enough, so why not? Actually, the impetus came one day when I was going home from my job one day in undergrad, and saw two girls who were legal interns, and they seemed really happy. They were yapping about their jobs, and how interesting it was, and, more importantly, they were wearing really cute suits.

But, quite honestly, I think I like scrubs better than suits. They're like glasses...they instantly make you look smarter, and hide all manner of flaws under their forgiving blueness. But it's not about the clothes people, it's about the ick factor. I love that stuff. I used to work at a hospital (in their financial department, nothing interesting), and we got to take these cool field trips over to the main hospital. We saw the gamma knife center, and the lab, and watched a surgery, which was the coolest part. Forget about the fact that I can't even clean the cat litter without gagging a little...for some reason that stuff just kind of fascinates me. I think it's the idea that you can open someone up and put them back together again, and if all goes well you saved someone's life. Whatever the reason is, I get jealous everytime I watch ER, Grey's Anatomy, even Scrubs (and yes, I realize that these are about as accurate as Law & Order is to life as a lawyer).

But, alas, poli sci won out over a bio major, and I'm stuck with the Rule Against Perpetuities instead of something that's actually interesting. But you never know, maybe I'll take the MCAT's just for fun...just to see how I do.

Oddball

This seems sort of chain letter-esque, but as requested, and since I have nothing else to write about at the moment, I'm going to let y'all in on six of my odd habits. Not all of them are habits exactly, but just weird little things that I hope add to my charm. So, in no particular order, here they are:

1. I always have to have my feet sticking out from under the covers when I sleep. If my feet aren't colder than the rest of me, I have a hard time falling asleep.
2. My upper lip twitches when I try to lie (I'm a terrible liar), or when I have to speak in public, which is one of my all-time least favorite, most hated things to do.
3. I have a deep hatred of the word "sensuous."
4. I sometimes read the last sentence of a book before I actually start it, although I rarely do this anymore.
5. When saying goodnight to Max, I always say "see you in the morning."
6. I have this weird paranoia about my tires blowing out while I'm driving, so I usually walk around my car and look at them before I go somewhere.

So, there you have it, some of the strangeness that is me. Hope you enjoyed!

Neurotic is so not hot

I was watching Grey's Anatomy last night, and while I love the show (or did, up until the season finale), Meredith Grey bugs the hell out of me. I guess they were going for cutely neurotic or something, but to me she's just kind of annoying. Like, I wish she would just get over it and stop overthinking everything and whining all the time. It's like the main characters on these girly shows always have to be so over the top with their neuroses. What is that? I kept getting annoyed when they would go to the Meredith portion of the show, wishing that they would go back to the other, slightly more functional characters. Like Izzie. She's crazy, but I like her anyway, mostly because she doesn't spend all of her time whining about McDreamy and his gorgeous but oddly big-headed wife.

I have the same problem with Sex and the City, another show that I love. Carrie's the same way, overly neurotic bordering on whiny. I've taken a few of the "Which character are you?" quizzes on the internet (don't laugh), and I'm always hoping that I don't come out as Carrie. Not like those things are at all accurate or meaningful in any way, but that's beside the point. I just always liked the other characters better, because they seemed more real and less like someone's idea of what a thirty-something woman is.

So, anyway, if someone can explain to me the appeal of these whiny, neurotic, and overly skinny creatures (seriously, Meredith Grey is too damn thin), I would really appreciate it, because soon I'm not going to be able to watch TV at all.

Liza Jane explained

Mother of God I'm bored. So I thought I'd tell all ten of you or so who read this blog, even though no one asked, where the Liza Jane thing came from, since it's kinda odd. Therefore, I feel it's fitting that it came from my grandfather, because he's also a little strange. Loveable, but strange. See, he's a retired family doctor, whose main clientele were the Amish. He, my grandma, my four aunts, and my mom lived in Intercouse, PA (no, seriously) for most of their lives, and the main inhabitants are ridiculously large Amish families. And yet, my grandpa is strangely liberal, and has become more so with age. He's also rather argumentative and can be somewhat stuck in his ways, which is part of the reason that I love him. All in all, he's a pretty interesting guy.

Anyway, my grandpa has always had these nicknames for my brother and I. Ever since I can remember, he's called me Little Eliza Jane, and I've always, until recently, hated it. He even had a little song that went along with it, which I assumed he'd made up. I tried refusing to answer to it for a little while, but that didn't really work, and despite my repeated protests he's persisted in calling me this. He had a nickname for my brother too (Germany), which sort of rhymes with his name, but my brother was a little more vehement than I was about his dislike for the name, and so it's sort of faded a little.

So up until this year, I've been a little embarassed by this odd nickname I got, and couldn't really figure out where it came from. Then in January, Max, myself, and one of our friends went to this little dive bar in the Bywater called Vaughn's Lounge to see Kermit Ruffins play like he does every Thursday (awesome musician if you've never heard him). The bar is in a not so great area, and they have to buzz you in through the front door, but beer was only a dollar, and I was promised that the music would be good. It was good, great actually, and imagine my surprise when I heard ole Kermit singing Little Eliza Jane. I never knew it was actually a song before, and figured that my grandpa had just cooked it up out of nowhere. It was a fun song too, really jazzy and upbeat and everyone in the bar was dancing and clapping along with the music. Despite having nothing to do with the creation of my nickname, I suddenly felt rather proud of it. So when I created this blog, rather than hide from it, like I'd been trying to do for 24 years, I decided that I would embrace it. And now, when my grandpa sings my name at me when I go home for Christmas, I might even just sing along.

Caution, for my feminist card may be revoked

My dear friend Pink Pirate may revoke my feminist card for this next statement, but I'm kind of enjoying my house-girlfriend thing that I have going on right now. Having survived the year from hell otherwise know as Law School: post-Katrina, it's rather nice to concentrate on more mundane things. My days now go something like this:
1. Wake Max up
2. Go back to sleep
3. Wake up briefly to say goodbye and tell him to have a good day
4. Go back to sleep
5. Wake up for the third time, somewhere around 9, have several cups of coffee, contemplate breakfast food
6. Putz around the house, play on the internet, watch bad MTV reality shows - generally entertain myself
7. Clean some stuff, maybe a few errands
8. Make dinner
9. Greet Max, eat dinner
10. Putz around some more, hang out with Max
11. Go to bed
12. Repeat
It may sound boring, but for now I'm reveling in doing a fair amount of sweet, sweet nothing. Eventually, given my lack of a job, I will probably run out of money and get rather bored, since going out/shopping/running errands to keep myself busy will no longer be a viable entertainment option, although there's still the pool, which is free. It's likely that I'll find something to do with myself before then, since I'm planning to pay a visit to the pro-bono office tomorrow (this will comprise the errand-running portion of my afternoon) in order attempt to find something to do with myself. I figure that it's unlikely at this point that a sweet, paid job is going to fall out of the air and land at my feet, so I might as well get my help on, and find a way to successfully pass the time until school starts again. So will end my short stint as a house-girlfriend, and I will return to my former self, slightly stressed out, but proud of myself for actually doing something.

Road Rage is so unbecoming, Part 2

I've posted before about the road rage born of driving in New Orleans, but I don't believe I'd really witnessed its full horror until Saturday night. My friend Lindsay and I were driving back from the bar (not driving under the influence, just driving), and I pulled up to a red light to make a right turn. I didn't pull up especially fast, not exactly fond of the screech to a halt and terrify other drivers thing that many in New Orleans seem to find acceptable. Well, apparently, I pulled up a little too fast for the person driving down the street onto which I was planning to turn. I'm assuming that it was obvious to anyone who was watching that I was planning on stopping, had slowed down considerably, and was at least 6 feet away from this guy's car. Obvious to anyone but him apparently, since he gave me a look that was part crazed meth addict, part pure rage (which could actually fit quite well into the first category, now that I think about it). After giving me the look of death, he proceeds to pull over and get out of his car. His friend, driving behind him, also pulled over and started to get out his car. Not needing anymore prompting, I quickly ran the red light and drove down the street, not wanting to witness whatever homicidal fantasy he had in store for me. Not to be outdone, he pulls out behind me, and proceeds to drive up behind me flashing his brights, stopping a mere inch from the back of my car. I believe that it was at this point that I began hyperventilating and instructing Lindsay to call the police, which she did, while I crouched lower in my seat, praying that it was, indeed, bullet-proof. After the light changed, I tried to get away from the crazy person behind me, who was apparently determined to run me off the road, and followed me through five different U-turns before I finally was able to cut someone off, almost killing myself and Lindsay, and pull in between two rather large SUV's, which I was convinced would protect me. Luckily, they did, and he pulled up in front of me in the other lane, missing the turn I made. My heart rate slowly returned to normal after about five separate coronaries and I dropped Lindsay off, taking back streets and constantly glancing in the rear-view, convinced I was now being followed.

On my way home, I realized that I must have read waaayyyy too many mystery/detective novels, because I was still sure that I was being followed and expected Satan himself to pull up behind me at any time. The knowledge that he had probably forgotten about me and gone on to torment other unthreatening girls for stopping at a red light was completely lost on me, and I felt the need to drive around for twenty minutes before actually heading home, accompanied by my friend Ann on the phone, since I was still too hysterical to make it home by myself.

So, anyway, the moral of the story is...actually I'm not sure. Stop at least 30 yards from all red lights to avoid looking at all threatening? Stop in the middle of the road and begin frantically honking my horn, hoping that someone will notice me and therefore scare away any amphetamine-crazed pursuers? All I do know is this - chasing two terrified girls around New Orleans for doing nothing more than pulling up at a red light, something that millions of people do every day, doesn't make you look a big man. It makes you look a whacked out asshat.

Tasty

I love food. Eating it, cooking it, baking it, these are things I like to do. I'd say I generally make dinner at least 4 nights a week. It makes me happy, especially when I can feed other people. I wasn't always such a good cook though. When I was younger, in my teenage years, my mother was constantly trying to get me to learn how to cook. She told me that it was a useful skill, as she wouldn't be moving to college with me and I would eventually have to learn how to feed myself. I'm pretty sure that she also wanted me to learn so that she wouldn't be the only one making dinner for us every night. For years, I fiercely resisted. My parents would go away for the weekend, and I would find myself living on peanut butter crackers, grilled cheese sandwiches, and pizza delivery. This wasn't so bad, but it wasn't exactly gourmet either. So one day, I decided to give in and make my family dinner. I chose mac and cheese for my efforts, not the Kraft kind, but the real kind. Having gotten all of the ingredients together, I shooed my mother, who was trying to help me, out of the kitchen. Didn't matter that I could barely boil water, I was going to do this on my own. So I putzed around the kitchen, mixing cheeses and milk and whatever else went into the recipe, dumped the whole thing in a big baking dish, and sat down to wait for my noodle and dairy masterpiece to come out of the oven. A little while later, having made a salad, and set the table, I pulled it out of the oven, and my family and I sat down to eat. I was loving all the praise coming my way, as everyone was thanking me for making dinner. That is, until they actually took a bite of it. It was weirdly crunchy. Trying to figure out what I had done wrong, my mother started going over the recipe with me, asking had I done this or that, and the answer was yes every time, until she got to the part about boiling the macaroni before putting them in the dish with everything else. See, I had followed the directions exactly, but apparently this was one of those advanced mac & cheese recipes, where they assume that you know to soften the noodles. In my uneducated mind, I had assumed that this would happen naturally when they were in the oven. Instead, it just served to make them a little toasty around the edges. It wasn't completely inedible, but it wasn't exactly what I'd call good either. However, to my family's credit, after they had finished laughing, they did eat it. They even said it was good, probably to encourage more helpful, dinner-making behavior on my part (with ample supervision next time). After that, I did started cooking more, and I think I've gotten rather good at it. But to this day, I haven't attempted to make mac & cheese again that isn't of the Kraft variety. However, when my mom came to visit me over the Memorial Day, I did cook a number of dinners for her, and even sent her home with recipes. Hopefully, this went a little way to help make up for the fact that my first dinner attempt could probably have chipped a few teeth.

This is a starting to feel a little too third-world

It is less than 48 hours before my last final and my power has come back on after having died for the second time in the last 18 hours, and for what is probably the thirtieth time since January (really). After calling Entergy (our local monopoly, whose number I have now memorized), I was snippily informed that it might be another 8 hours before it was turned back on, and that no, customer service agents are not able to tell me why it is out (even though, last I checked, the sole job requirement for a customer service rep is to provide customer service). I am pleased to report that it did not, in fact, take a full 8 hours, and thus I am spared the happy task of replacing all of the food in my refrigerator, as it seems I must do every two weeks or so. I'm now convinced that the higher-ups at Entergy have decided that it should be my lot in life to make endless trips to the grocery store to replace spoiled food with the money from my apparently never-shrinking bank account.

I'm fully aware that I'm whining right now, and that it might seem a little obnoxious seeing that there are still areas of the city with no power at all. However, it seems to me that after upping their rates over 100%, my idiotic power company should be able to supply me with some actual power. Other neighborhoods don't seem to have this problem (the ones with electricity restored), and while I realize that mine isn't very high on the tourist-trade list, this is getting slightly ridiculous. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the only reason that my electric clicked back on after only a few hours this time is because parts of the Quarter were out too, making it much more of a priority than usual.

On the plus side though, I do seem to have developed some odd sort of electricity-related ESP, since I just bought candles this morning, sensing that last night's power outage was soon to be followed by another. This may not be a really marketable skill, but in a city like New Orleans, where things like clean, running water and working lights are not to be taken for granted, it might actually come in handy.

Is there such a thing as being gainfully unemployed?

It's exactly two and a half days before my last final of my first year of law school. Part of me, actually 99.9% of me, is thrilled to be done. It will be nothing less than spectacular to finally see the light at the end of the year-from-hell tunnel. The other part of me, however, is getting a little worried. I still don't have a job. Not a law-related job, not any job, not summer abroad (the only good justification I know of for not getting a job). I fear interviewing for next summer, when I'll have to explain to Mr. Hiring Partner why I was such a slacker this time around. Somehow I doubt that drinking daiquiris at the levee qualifies as gainful employment. The thought makes me happy, but doesn't look so good on a resume. So, about a week ago, in a last-ditch attempt to ascend from the ranks of the unemployed, I sent an email in response to call for volunteers to help with the backlog of criminal cases that have piled up since last August. At first I heard back, via mass email, that I could start this week if possible. Unfortunately, that's not possible, as I'm still bogged down with finals. So I sent another email, proclaiming that I was ready, willing, and able to start next week, as soon as finals are over. I haven't heard back. I've checked my email every day, several times a day, hoping to find out that I was needed. So I'm watching TV last night, finished studying for the day, and there's a news story about this particular problem with our court system. There are literally thousands of people that haven't even seen a lawyer yet. People are practically begging for help...but still no email. So now I'm slightly worried. Maybe it's just me, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't spend this much to spend the next 30 years saying "Do you want fries with that?

I'm getting soft in my old age

My stepsister recently had a baby. My mom called me from the hospital the other day to tell me that I was an aunt, and my response was less then enthused. I believe I said "Oh, okay." This didn't really go over well, but I have a well-documented dislike of children. I'm actually rather fond of saying that I have the maternal instinct of a rock. They're small, they smell funny, and as I don't speak baby, I can't understand them until they reach about the age of five. Also, the sound of babies crying causes a rather strong stress reaction in me. I spurn commercials featuring talking babies. Plus, they're always so sticky. Case in point...I was at the laundromat recently and there were two little girls there, who of course had some sort of peanut butter & jelly like substance all over them. Their mother seemed to be nowhere in sight, so I was forced to defend myself for the next half hour against their grubbiness. I was so disturbed that I actually went home and took a shower.

So, imagine my surprise when my brother sent me some recent photos of the new baby. It's actually cute. I was all prepared with my normal reaction, which is usually somewhere along the lines of thinking that babies look kind of like alien worms. I must be slipping. It was all tiny and happy-looking and I kinda couldn't help but smile. I actually felt bad about my reaction to the news of its arrival. Most people consider this normal, but I'm totally out of my league here. I was IM'ing with my friend Ann at the time and told her about my reaction to the new baby. She told me that she secretly suspected that I would make a good mother. This, of course, is blasphemy. However, maybe I'll reconsider my former opinion a little. I still don't like babies, but maybe I could be okay with being more like a pebble than a rock.

My school is sinking

It seems like such a very long time ago that I decided it would be a good idea to do an accelerated year of law school to make up for that stupid hurricane. There I was, hanging out in Memphis with my friends, going to Graceland, eating Doritos for breakfast, attempting to refuse to go home to Pennsylvania to placate my parents, when...school got cancelled, not for the week that was originally planned, but for a whole semester. So, I finally give in and go back to my farming-happy hometown, where everybody and their mother attempts to force me to go to a different school for the semester. Columbia? No thanks, I'll pass, even though it was my first choice. Penn, Pitt? Nope, uh-uh, not going. I know! I'll go to Hawaii and hang out on the beach all semester while interning. Not only will it look good on my resume, but everyone will leave me alone and I can go swimming! And get a tan! So, perfect plans in motion, I jet off to Oahu, and go swimming, and get a tan, all the while thinking that doing law school in 6 months when I get back will be no big deal. I mean, I did the accelerated courses before when I decided that I was sick of being in college, so how hard can it be? Reallly hard, apparently. And and by hard, I mean mind-numbingly-I'm-so-burnt-out-I-could-sleep-for-a-week difficult. But, that said, I think if I got to rewind and go back to last August, I'd probably do the same thing. That doesn't mean that if the same thing happens again, I won't visit. I'll be off to another school for the semester faster than you can say "2L." But for now, I'm feeling optimistic...and will be until I get my grades back.

Stick with what works

Apparently the abject terror I felt last night at the thought of my con law exam wasn't entirely unfounded. That's right, I just got beasted by my first exam. See, I didn't think it would be so bad. Our professor told us that case names weren't really important, for example. Okay, I thought, so I'll just make sure that I know the key facts, and the significance of the case, and so on, and I'll be just fine, right? Right, until I saw question 3, worth a third of our exam grade, and realized that I was well and truly screwed. What the hell were you thinking Con Law Professor?! Oh, I know, it's like our Crim Law exam last semester, the one the teacher made "just for us." Please, no more favors, we've been tormented enough. If you have exams on file dating back to 1991, and they all follow the same format, why not stick with it? It obviously works. Instead, I'm now having random bouts of rage, thinking "how could that have gone so badly?" During the rage parts, I have this almost uncontrollable urge to drive to the Supreme Court building and bitch slap pictures of old justices, which actually kind of amuses me and makes me feel better for a while. When I stop giggling/fuming, I realize that I have another exam the day after tomorrow. So, anyway, pray for me, and in the meantime, I guess I should stop drinking margaritas and get back to studying.

Finals-induced ranting

My apartment is a giant mess. There are clothes everywhere, dishes on every available surface, remnants of pizza boxes, diet coke cans, and laundry that has been in the bin since Katrina. Yes, since Katrina, 10 months ago. I realize this is disgusting, but dammit, my dryer’s broken and I’m trying. Besides, every time that I go to the Laundromat, which is 100 degrees due to the lack of ventilation, I get attacked by little kids whose mothers don’t seem to care that their children are attempting to sit on the lap of a complete stranger who’s just trying to do her reading in peace. Normally, this utter mess would bother me in some way, since I’m practically obsessive compulsive in my neatness, but finals start tomorrow and my abject terror has rendered me unable to do anything but stare disconsolately at my books and try to keep my brain from jumping out of my head and drowning itself in the Mississippi. Really, who thought that it was a good idea to base an entire semester’s grade on one exam? Or better yet, on one question, as my corporate law professor has done? It’s like some kind of weird hazing ritual. I was never in a sorority, as they weren’t really a big deal at my school, but I’m starting to think that being made to drink until I pass out or smear a mixture of mayo and Vaseline in my hair (as one of my good friends had to do) might be a nice change.

Spare Me

After yesterday, I’ve decided that I’m not going to review sessions anymore. When the professor gives the review, it's generally helpful, but when the class is allowed to ask questions, it quickly deteriorates into a contest to see who can come with the most ridiculous hypothetical.

For example, my Contracts 2 review session was yesterday. Rather than do anything that would have been even mildly helpful, five people babbled for an hour and 45 minutes about every possible scenario they could come up with. Even the professor seemed confused after a while, saying “Well, that’s not really relevant…” and then launching into an explanation anyway, the whole time looking as though she wasn’t really sure how this had gotten so off track.

Of course, this behavior isn’t limited to review sessions. One girl in particular spent an entire fifteen minutes one class period talking about frozen horse sperm. She only stopped when the professor mercifully asked “Why are we even talking about this?” We've also, on occasion, spent 45 minutes talking about capitalism versus communism and how it relates to furniture stores. I’m pretty sure my notes from that day actually include the words “blah, blah, blah.”

Now, if something is actually relevant to the class, doesn’t involve a fifteen minute explanation, and might help your classmates, I’m all for raising your hand and asking the question. But if you just want to hear yourself talk, for God’s sake, go visit the professor on your own time. Better yet, just buy a mirror and talk to yourself, because really, no one else cares "what would happen if..."

Is that really necessary?

The Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale started today, which means that I am constantly bombarded with commercials featuring women 6 feet tall that probably weigh less than I do. My boyfriend, of course, loves these commercials. I, on the other hand, could do without and frequently change the channel whenever I hear their soft-core porn music start. Now, I love Vicky’s, and I generally feel just fine about myself, but really, who the hell are they marketing to? Most women are aware of the fact that buying a particular bra isn’t going to make them look like Giselle, and looking at these girls makes a lot of women feel like trolls. So are they marketing to the men in their lives? A lot of guys I know don’t really buy lingerie for their girlfriends. If they buy it a size too big, this is problematic, whereas if it’s a size too small the girl might assume that they’re trying to give them a hint. So while I’ll probably drop a fair amount at my friendly neighborhood Vicky’s over the next year, I could do without the commercials. Unless of course I wake up tomorrow morning weighing 110 pounds and having grown 5 inches.

Road Rage is so unbecoming

Open question to the police force: Would it be so hard to post signs saying that you are planning to close off an entire street so that I can adjust my plans accordingly? Because I just sat in traffic for an hour, a half hour of which was spent watching you direct one lane of traffic, while leaving the other lane, my lane, to sit and stare in disbelief as your partner chatted away and ignored us. I didn't have too much road rage before moving here, but for some reason driving to school and back every morning makes me want to throw something. Maybe it's the fact that cars in Louisiana don't seem to come with turn signals, or that I cringe everytime I pass a side street, hoping that the car approaching me will actually stop at the stop sign this time. Or maybe it's that my car has been hit in the past month. Twice. While it was parked. It could have something to do with the fact that speed limits seem to be taken as merely as suggestion. Going ten miles per hour in a 35 zone...not acceptable. So, anyway, Mr. Policeman, the next time that you decide to stop traffic for no particular reason, try to actually direct it. Otherwise, I might just give in to my urge to rip off my steering wheel and throw it at you. Thank you.