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?

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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.