Liza Jane? More like Calamity Jane

It's official y'all: this finals period has sucked even more than those previous. And not even really because of the exams, because I haven't even taken any yet. Remember how I said my car was having problems? Well, it was having $475 problems, apparently. Can you say ouch? And not only that, but the first time that I drove out to pick it up, it turns out it had died right before closing the night before, so my journey into Uptown was for naught.

So the day after I take my car in to have it looked at, I'm on the phone, probably whining about my car, and I walk into the living room, turning on the light as I come in. Well, said light doesn't turn on, so I pull the little clicky-cord again, and as I'm standing there looking at the wall switch to see if it's on, the entire ceiling fan apparatus comes falling out of my 14-foot ceiling directly onto yours truly. I didn't have my camera at the time, or I'd have taken a picture of the wooden and glass pile o' destruction, because it was impressive. So impressive in fact that I'm surprised I wasn't knocked out. Instead, I just sorta sat down, stunned, and told my friend I'd have to call her back. Who does that happen to? Whose ceiling fan just randomly falls out of the ceiling while they're standing under it? It's just...wrong.

And then yesterday, calamity number 3 befalls me and I come down with a 24-hour stomach flu. Because I love to spend my days curled up on the bathroom floor instead of studying for the finals that are set to begin tomorrow.

Moral of the story: I've had a crappy week. Maybe it's the universe's way of getting it all out of its system so that my finals are comparatively better? Let's hope so. In fact, I think I'll knock on wood right now.

This is how I roll

Apparently I have a fuel injection problem. I found this out this morning when my car wouldn't start after leaving the library, prepared to go to the Rue and be productive. This prompted a middle of the street freak out, which I refuse to apologize for, because it is finals time and I am trying my hardest to be positive, but sometimes it's hard. So anyway, my friend Erica picks me up and drives me back to my house, across town, where we must jump Max's car because its battery is dead. Back at my vehicle, it starts for him and I drive it home, even though it dies once on the way there. And this is how I now drive, because a classy broad like me deserves a classy car:

1. Get into car.
2. Turn car on.
3. Immediately start revving engine like I'm about to peel out of parking space.
4. After about five or six revs, throw car into drive as quickly as possible and hit gas.
5. When approaching a red light, put car into neutral, and with one foot firmly on the brake, begin hitting the gas again.
6. Ignore stares of fellow drivers, who are looking at you and wondering why you're acting like you want to race.

It's official. I drive a hoopdee. Guess it's back to the shop first thing Monday morning.

Please excuse the interruption...

It's finals time again, so that means that I'll probably be posting sporadically or not at all for the next couple of weeks. December 14th or bust! In the meantime, Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Thursday Thirteens - Teen Angst Edition

Today, Thursday Thirteens will offer you thirteen tidbits about My So-Called Life, since it's just (finally) come out on DVD, and because I loved that show as an angsty thirteen-year-old. Really LOVED it. I was convinced that Angela Chase was the coolest person ever. So, umm, on that embarrassing note:

1. A.J. Langer, who played Rayanne on the series, is now "Lady Courtenay," having married Charles Peregrine Courtenay, Lord Courtenay. Someday, they plan on living in England, although the Lord is currently a lawyer. Kinda funny, since she played a drunken product of a broken home on the series.

2. Wilson Cruz, who played "Rickie," didn't come out until he was 19, and was thrown out of the house by his father, just like Rickie was on the series.

3. The series wasn't picked up for a second season partially due to low ratings. Hard to imagine when it was competing against such powerhouses as Martin and Living Single.

4. Set in a fictional suburb of Pittsburgh called Three Rivers, the series was actually shot at University High School in L.A.

5. Cameron Crowe included a scene in Jerry Maguire that was taken from a scene in the pilot, along with using several actors from the show in the movie.

6. Devon Odessa, who plays Angela's estranged best friend Sharon, actually lived in New Orleans for a time before moving to L.A. And, bonus observation, there are two Devons in the series, Devon Odessa and Devon Gummersall, who plays Brian, Angela's neighbor. Additionally, A.J. Langer's husband, Lord Courtenay, is the son of the 18th Earl of Devon.

7. Winnie Holzman, the show's main writer, is a prize-winning poet and previously worked on thirtysomething, which I'm guessing is about pre-middle-aged angst as opposed to angst of the teen variety.

8. Angela's hair color on the show was the fictional "Crimson Glow."

9. TV Guide is apparently as obsessed with the show as were most teenage girls at the time that it aired, having named it #16 on the Top 25 Cult Shows Ever, ranking Jordan & Angela's hand-holding moment one of the TV's Most Romantic Moments, and ranking Angela's father Graham as #49 on the list of 50 Greatest TV Dads of All Time.

10. Alicia Silverstone was first considered for the role of Angela Chase, but was apparently too self-possessed for the part.

11. Tino, who was referenced many times on the show, and reputed to love the maternity ward of hospitals, never actually appeared on the series.

12. In the episode entitled "The Zit," the listing of the hottest sophomores featured the names of female crew members.

13. The pilot episode is the only episode in the series in which the school cafeteria is shown. The English class, on the other hand, is shown repeatedly, and figures prominently into several of the episodes.

And I'm pretty sure this list makes me the biggest nerd ever. Like, awesome.

From an article on the Hollywood Writer's Strike:

"The networks are expected to augment the inevitable reruns with brand-new fare that doesn't need a script from anybody (at least, not a WGA writer). News programs will likely swell in number. Look for new game shows. And an explosion, so to speak, of reality shows."

Oh my god, just give them what they want.

How Edward McClellan annoyed the hell out of me

I hate this guy. His name is Edward McClelland, and I hate him. I want him to fall off his mile-high, pompous horse, and shut the hell up. He wrote this article, the one that's linked to above, entitled "How Oprah ruined the marathon," which, if you don't feel like reading it, basically says that amateur runners, who are running for any reason other than competitive glory are ruining the competitive spirit that America used to have, that the elite runners who are there for said competitive glory are being dragged down by "the pack," and that all of our fancy gear has turned us into a bunch of slow, lazy couch potatoes who have no business on the road.

This article pissed me off so much, in fact, that most of the time that I was reading, I was basically sputtering incoherently at my screen. Since when is it not okay to run for your personal best, or to achieve a lifetime goal? Since when are the accomplishments of the few in any way taken away by the desire of the many to participate in what is basically the holy grail of running? Did Paula Radcliffe ruin her pace by running in the same race that Jane "I used to be a couch potatoe" Doe did? No, of course not. The fact that the New York marathon is now more popular in no way diminished the fact that she ran it in 2 hours, 23 minutes (between a 5 and 6 minute mile, for 26.2 consecutive miles). So why, exactly, does McClelland feel like a "middle-aged woman hauling her flab around the District of Columbia" has destroyed the marathon (by the way, that is his characterization of Oprah. I don't really know anything about the woman beyond what everyon else knows, but that's a douchey thing to say)? Well, aside from ruining America's competitive spirit and destroying the times of our elite runners, apparently the glory of the marathon is somehow diminished. Sure, that makes perfect sense. Something like 1/10 of 1% of all people have run a marathon. So, if you run one yourself, I'm pretty that this particular statistic ensures that you're still pretty glorious for doing so.

And another thing, because I'm not done ranting yet, how is it wrong to get up and move your body when so many people in this country are obese, or diabetic, or just plain out of shape? Isn't that a good thing? Isn't the "hauling" of "flab" therefore a noble goal? And do you know how much money is raised for charity by all of the "normal" people running marathons? I don't either, but it's a lot. Edward McClelland, how dare you criticize anyone for doing something good for themselves. If you're so damn concerned that America's running elite aren't making such fantastic times anymore, that they're wearing wicking fabric and shock-proof sneakers instead of "cotton T-shirts, drooping socks, and Tiger racing flats," take it up with them. Leave the rest of us to run to our own versions of panting, red-faced, sweaty glory. Last I checked, you yourself admitted to being on the "wrong" side of 4 hours in the very article in which you criticize everyone else for trying. When you try again next spring for a little competitive glory of your own, I hope that you don't drag everyone else down with your pace. So, here's to you, and your bum knee. Break a leg.

Marital Resonance Imaging?

I was listening to NPR this morning while getting ready for class, and heard a story about a possible alternative to the lie detector test, which uses a functional MRI to track a lie while it's taking shape in the brain. I know, what a boring thing to post about. But, then I heard this little bit, about the type of people who are actually lining up to prove their innocence:

"We have had a huge number of people contact us with regard to sexuality," he said. "In other words: 'I am being faithful to my partner, but he doesn't believe me.' That's a common complaint. Interestingly, it is mostly women who are calling and asking to do this."

Hmmm, so you're willing to pay about $10,000 (the approximate cost of a session), to prove to someone that you're not stepping out on him. Gee, what a healthy relationship. Seriously, if you had to pay TEN GRAND to prove to someone that you're not lying, would you stay with that person? Because, ummm, isn't trust supposed to be one of the cornerstones of a loving relationship, or something like that? I had this one boyfriend, who among other totally fucking crazy things, wanted me to actually show him my paystubs to prove that I was waitressing instead of, I don't know, prostituting myself on the corner. Needless to say, we're not together anymore. I certainly didn't shell out $10K to prove to him that I wasn't getting dressed up in my sexy apron and tie every night for a hot date. Someone who is willing to do so just baffles me. I mean, for you, lovely readers, is there anything that would possibly make someone so attractive that you're willing to go to such lengths?

P.S. Yes, I know that the title of this post is really lame. Just getting that out of the way.

Oh, the mysteries of life

That thing, right up there, above this sentence, is my heater. And the very tips of my toes, but those aren't important to this post. As you can probably see, it's dusty, and it lives under my hardwood floor. My flammable hardwood floor. And it gets really really hot, and clangs and bangs under my floor like it's going to explode at any moment. This is how I heat my house, which has suddenly become important, since it went from summer to "holy shit, it's really cold out there" in about five minutes flat. I haven't turned on said heater yet, because despite all the clanging and threats to explode, it doesn't actually do much. This, to me, is one of the mysteries of New Orleans. In a place with such a crazy climate, there's little to no climate control in these old houses, of which mine is one. Yes, it gets to over 100 degrees here, and yet I only have two little window air conditioners. And despite popular belief, it gets cold too. For example, the other day when I woke up it was only 58 degrees in my bedroom. And yet, despite my house being a six-room shotgun, there is only one little heater, which basically means that my bedroom feels like a sauna, and the rest of the house like a freezer. Can someone explain this me?

Holy crap!

So, I know that I said I was going to train for a marathon (or a half-marathon. Brief aside: if I'm going to do the training and everything, is it a cop-out to only run halfway? Or does that make me a slightly saner person?), but I haven't run since Saturday. I have good excuses though. For one, I keep getting shin splints. If you don't know what they are, it feels like you cracked your shin bone in half. It's a small bone, and it hurts when it feels broken. And I have a midterm coming up tomorrow. I thought that it would only involve about 300 pages of reading, but it was more like 500, or possibly 600. So, I've been busy and cranky too. But anyway, the other day I picked up a friend at the airport, and I thought to myself "let's just use our little mileage thing, and see how far it is." So I did, and I drove to the airport, and then back to her house near Broadway, and it was only about 28 miles. I say "only" because I thought it would be a lot further away than that, and I was discouraged to know that if I did a full marathon, I would have to run to the airport, and back to Broadway, approximately. Because that's a long f-ing way to run. And now I think that maybe I was crazy to think that this was possible, especially with a leg bone that feels broken. But, I signed up for law school, so that makes me crazy anyway. So why the hell not?

Thursday Thirteens!

So, we've arrived at Thursday Thirteens, where you get 13 random facts, tidbits if you will, about whatever I'd like to tell you about. This idea certainly isn't mine, and originates with this blog, which I found by way of another. So, for our first Thursday Thirteens, since I'm currently starving and thus only really interested in eating, I give you thirteen restaurants that I must visit before leaving NOLA. This is, of course, not an exhaustive list, because I plan on eating my way through the city before I'm done. But, to start:

1. Crepe Nanou - as CJ said on Top Chef, if there were another Spice Girl, she'd be Crepe Spice, because the ladies love crepes. As I am a lady (what? I am, stop laughing), I'm no exception to the rule, and plus, I've heard good things about this one.

2. Mr. B's Bistro - I've had a gift certificate to this restaurant since August 25, 2005. Well, that worked out really well, as you can imagine. And since they didn't reopen until quite recently, and since trying to get Max to dress up even a little is an exercise in futility, I still haven't used it. But, I have a promise that he'll come with me next week, so things are looking up.

3. Sucre - maybe this isn't technically a restaurant, since they only serve sweet things and dessert, but it just looks so pretty! And sugary! And I love pretty, sugary anything (except for marzipan, that stuff just tastes a bit odd), so there ya go.

4. Cafe Atchafalaya - it has a giant frying pan on the side of the building. I mean, how cool is that?

5. Lola's - Mmmmm, sangria. Oh, and I hear the food's pretty good too.

6. Crabby Jack's - everyone keeps telling me that they have the best po-boys, and yet, I have yet to try them. So, it's on my list.

7. Upperline - it's just such a cheerful looking place, and I hear that the duck there is fantastic. And I love duck, especially when it's done right, because otherwise it's just sort of tough and boring.

8. Commander's Palace - well, that's an obvious choice.

9. La Petite Grocery - I've heard SO MANY good things about this place that I must try it. And hopefully it'll be around for a while, since the building has already housed a flower shop and a grocery store.

10. Acme Oyster - I just feel like it's one of those institution-type places that I have to visit. Plus, the last time that I had a raw oyster I was 10, and you can't reallly appreciate that sort of thing at such a young age.

11. Cochon - I dunno, I drive by it every other day or so, and it looks good.

12. Brennan's - I was supposed to go here two weeks ago for brunch, but then my visitors realized that they hadn't brought the necessary clothing choices, so I didn't. But I want to, darnit.

13. Bennachin's - little West African place in the Quarter. Since I believe in trying everything once, and since their menu looks quite interesting, I'd like to visit this place sometime. Plus, I once read in a "review" of sorts on a local site that it was a great place to refuel after a little afternoon delight. Interesting.

Progress!

Sort of. My second "I made a crazy decision and will be sticking to it" run was today, and I ran...the same amount that I did yesterday. But it was better! I didn't feel like I was gonna pass out, and I sprinted the last few blocks. So, progress. I'll take it where I can get it.

Update: Marathon (Wo)man

Woot! I have started "training." As my friends Abs said of her own start last week, it really just involved running while thinking about the race, so not really a training program as of yet, more like my normal Tuesday afternoon, but with different thoughts. But anyways, I managed to run a whole 1.45 miles (per this website, which is actually pretty nifty), which is, well, not that impressive. I will point out though, that the always brilliant me decided to go at 4:30 in the afternoon, when the "feels like" index is still at 89 degrees and the humidity is 80%. This must be what they mean by "working smart."

Marathon (Wo)man

Hola readers! Look at all these posts that I'm writing! After such a long absence! And so enthusiastically!

Okay, enough of that. Suffice it to say that I'm in a better mood today. And I've decided...to run a marathon! Well, a half-marathon actually. We'll see how it goes. The idea of 26.2 miles kind of makes me want to run away in fear. Probably the not the type of running people envision when you say "marathon." But 13 miles sounds manageable. Or at least not terrifying. So I've decided to run the Mardi Gras Marathon, which, as it turns out, isn't actually during Mardi Gras season at all, but afterwards. Because, let's face it, even the most serious fitness nuts are either (a) hung over, (b) burnt out, or (c) both, on Mardi Gras, or the two weeks preceeding it.

Am I crazy? You might be wondering that (or maybe you're not. Maybe you don't care about my state of mind. In that case, why are you at my blog? Because I talk about myself, a lot). Well, maybe I am. After all, my last post on running was less than enthusiastic. It took the promise of Bloody Mary's and silly costumes to even get me up that early. And then I walked, and it was only a 5k. And I smoked the whole time. And yes, it's possible that I only have a vague idea of the definition of cross-training, and up until about 6 months ago my only exercise was some variation of cigarette-to-mouth lifting. But I've taken up jogging recently, and I've found that (gasp!) I like it. So why not?

Plus, it'll make me exercise, and god knows that I need to work off the excesses that I've been indulging in since I moved here two and a half years ago.

Just one of them days

I'm having a bad day. I just thought I'd put that out there. As much as the phrase makes me die a slow death inside every time that I hear it, I think I'm just having a case of the Mondays. Like one of those days where you have no bullshit tolerance, it's gone before you even get up in the morning, and then little by little you're beaten down by the smallest bullshitty things, that normally wouldn't even bother you. Like when I went to the Sav-A-Center today on Tchoupitoulas, and it was closed, for no real reason that I could discern, and I actually screamed in annoyance. And then I had to go across town to the other Sav-A-Center, but it's now a Rouse's, or something like that, and in my irritated state, I immediately disliked it because they wouldn't take my Sav-A-Center card, because they have "Everyday Low Prices" and dammit, I like my little keychain card, and I felt like I was getting a raw deal. And it was crowded, and two people ran into my cart and didn't even apologize. And then I got stuck in traffic, and almost got into an accident because the douche in front of me was driving like a douchey tool. And then my dinner, that I worked on for an hour and twenty minutes, was so spicy that I couldn't even eat it, and I really like spicy food, so it must have been really really spicy and it didn't even make me feel better that Max said he liked it. It was one of those days. So thanks for listening. I sort of feel a little better now.

You can blame the cable company this time

Okay, so I know that I said I'd have a new post up on Thursday, but for once, I actually have a good excuse for my lateness. See, on Wednesday afternoon the cable line outside of my house fell down, and it didn't get repaired until about an hour ago. So, I couldn't post, or check my email, or watch TV (horror of horrors! Does Cox not know how many good (trashy) shows are on between Wednesday and Thursday night? I mean, seriously, my TIVO is busy). So, in short, ya gotta wait till next Thursday, because it wouldn't be Thursday Thirteens (where I give you, lovely reader, thirteen facts about whatever I please, which in most cases, will be thirteen facts about me, because this is my blog and I am my own favorite subject) on a Sunday, now would it?

Smooches!
Liza Jane

Sweet Anticipation

What am I? I'll tell you what...busy. And a crappy blogger, because I haven't given my half-dozen readers anything to look at for a very long time. Since September 8th, as a matter of fact. So I'm here to tell you that I'm coming back on Thursday, because I've found a sweet posting idea to steal, and since I've had too much to do to also have an original thought lately, that's as creative as I get for now. Until then, fare well, lovely readers.

Puppy love

Ahh, the joys of being a journal member. Due to my inability to get my deadlines right, I'm currently at home frantically trying to finish something that I thought was due tomorrow, but is actually due today. None of the citations are in proper form, some are missing altogether, and the article in question was written by someone whose first language is quite obviously not English. Fantastic.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I'm sitting here doing my edits, vaguely watching a Discovery Channel show on oceans in the background, when the saddest commercial ever comes on. It's basically a series of slowly changing pictures of sheltered and abused animals, set to that "In the Arms of an Angel" song, and it's asking me to donate to the ASPCA. And it totally works. I'm the biggest sucker for animals, and puppy dog eyes are basically guaranteed to make me give up anything. I could probably be starving to death and would give up my last scraps of food to my dog if it looked at me the right way. Like, I'm that person who isn't bothered when the main character in a movie dies, but will collapse into sobs if the faithful dog happens to meet an untimely end. So I immediately log on to their website, and pledge $18 per month (only $.60 per day!). I'm feeling charitable, and tell Max about it when he calls me to see how my editing is coming along.

Me: Blah, blah, blah, editing's fine, etc. Oh, so I signed us up for monthly donations to the ASPCA. It's only $18 a month. Only $.60 per day!

Max: That's a pretty substantial amount when you think about it. That's more than we give to the ACLU.

Me: That's because I care about animals more than civil rights.

And now, more about me

Funny man Hoosier Joe tagged me, so here goes:

I have to elaborate on the following words/phrases:

Accent – I'd like to think that I don't have one, but I'm pretty sure I'm lying to myself. I grew up in Pittsburgh (where people sound oddly Southern), Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and now I'm here in New Orleans, so I doubt that I've escaped unscathed. For example, I've been told that I mispronounce the word "bagel."

I Don’t Drink – shots. I mean, I'll drink them if someone buys one for me, because to do otherwise would be impolite, but I generally protest since they almost always lead to the kind of drunkeness that involves embarrassing photos, worshipping of the porcelain god, or a really unpleasant morning after. Or all three.

Chore I Hate – every single one of them, but my all time most hated chore is doing the dishes. When the dishwasher broke last year, Max and I ate off of disposable plates with plastic utensils, because I just don't do dishes.

Pets – Mosquito, my unnecessarily loud cat, and Kallee the lab, who's only sort of mine since she still lives with my parents. But she loves me best, I'm sure of it.

Essential Electronic – This implies that I can only choose one, but since this is my blog, I'm going to say my cell phone and my computer. 'Cause I'm a rebel like that.

Perfume/Cologne – I used to work in the perfume/cosmetics department of a big department store, so I have about twenty, but mostly I wear Clinique Simply.

Gold or silver – Silver or white gold. My skin tone is such that I look goofy in anything related to the color yellow.

Insomnia – Not really. I've drugged that right out of myself.

Job Title – Law clerk. Not a secretary, not yet a lawyer.

Most Admired Trait – My booty. It's fabulous.

Kids - I don't like kids. They smell funny, they cry, they're always covered in jelly or ketchup or some other sticky food product (these are gross generalizations. Don't get insulted). I don't plan on having any, because I'd be a terrible, terrible mother. And if you look at me with a patronizing expression and say "Oh, you'll change your mind someday" or "I'm sure you'd feel differently about your own babies," I will kick you in the head.

Religion – makes for a boring Sunday morning.

Siblings – a younger brother, Jeremy, who's wonderful in an Indie snob sort of way, and my older sister Kate, who has never met a stray pet that she didn't rescue (she has two dogs, and four cats, and two turtles...and an understanding husband). I also have a stepsister, who tends to get herself into a lot of interesting situations, and a stepbrother, who's out in L.A. trying to be an actor/model.

Time I wake up – 6:30 a.m. A little earlier if I'm going running that day. Almost always crankily, until I have my first cup of coffee.

Unusual talent/skill – I'm not sure that I have one. You'd have to ask someone else.

Vegetable I refuse to eat – Olives, if they're a vegetable. Are they? I don't know, they're just too olivey. And bell peppers, if they're uncooked.

Worst habit – road rage, and getting prematurely annoyed about things.

X-rays – I've had a lot of them. I'm both clumsy and easily breakable.

My favorite meal – Sushi, or McDonald's breakfast combo #3, or anything with bacon. Or fried oyster po-boys. I could go on, but I'm really hungry now.

And for the tags: Some Girl (although I can't find her blog, despite hours of searching), LSD, Asenath, Heddy, and loco.

Me v. Vending

Day 1: In need of caffeine, I visit vending machine #1, put in my $1.25, and press the button for a soda. Nothing happens. I press it again. Again, nothing. I press the change return button. Nada. So I smack the machine with the heel of my hand, and get one quarter back. I smack it again, and it reluctantly coughs up another quarter. Okay, fine then, deep breath. I will not do anything so undignified as to freak out on an inanimate object.

So I move on to vending machine #2 with my two quarters and another three gathered from my wallet. I put in my money, and...nothing. Screw dignity. I yell at the machine. I kick the machine. Still nothing. I kick it again, and it coughs up two quarters. &*#$^%^#&*%^#. While swearing at the machine, a friend walks by and gives me a dollar to stop me from further making a scene. I give the machine its money. It gives me a soda. Crisis averted.

Day 2: I need of caffeine, and wary of vending machine #1, I take my dollar directly to vending machine #2, since it did, eventually, give me a soda the other day. I give the machine its money and...nothing. I take a deep breath. I take the very last bit of change out of my wallet, and give it to the machine. I press the button again, and again. Still no soda. So, this time, after swearing at and kicking the machine, I decide that I'm not going to take it anymore.

Fed up, I march out of the lobby, across campus, and into card services. Card services, it appears, is not there today, but is in the new building across from the law school. Okay, fine, I'll walk back up across lower campus, in the 100 degree heat, for a couple of quarters. I get to building #2, hot and irritated, and walk into Card Services, where I wait for several minutes, resisting the urge to tap my foot, while Cranky Woman #1 talks to Cranky Woman #2. Finally, CW1 is finished, and asks me what I'd like. So I tell her the saga of the vending machines, and she snippily informs me that she can't give me my money back, because today they are doing ID cards only, and I will have to wait two more days for my $2.50. And fine, maybe I should just walk away, but dammit, I'm pissed off now, and I want my money back, and it's the principle of the thing. So I whine that this is the second day in a row that this has happened to me, and I prepare to huff my way out of the room. However, it would appear that CW1 has also had it up to here with vending, and tells me that she is sick of taking all of the grief for something that she has no control over, and she wants vending services out. Just my luck that I get the woman who wants to overthrow vending. So she picks up the phone, calls vending, and literally shoves the phone into my hand so that I can tell vending just how much their machines suck. Which I do, sort of, since at this point I'm mostly just confused and I just want to get my soda and go to class. And I hang up, and cranky woman thanks for me for helping her cause, and I go back to class, sodaless and moneyless, and a little befuddled, and it's two days later, and I still don't have my money, or my soda.

I guess you could say that vending won.

All I want for my birthday is...a hurricane?

So, my birthday is coming up, next Sunday to be exact. Which means, per usual, that it's time for a hurricane scare . For previous examples, see Katrina (2005), and Ernesto (2006 - it doesn't matter that it didn't do anything in the end. The point is that I spent the week up until my birthday worrying about it). So, lo and behold:

From weather.com:
"Dean now a major hurricane"
It is too early to tell what, if any, impacts Dean will have on the United States but all along the western Gulf Coast, including coastal Texas and Louisiana, will want to keep monitoring Dean through the weekend into next week.

Now isn't that just peachy. I mean, New Orleans is already on my shitlist lately (see: ridiculous Entergy bills, possible failure of city's water system, soaring crime rate, etc. etc. etc.), and this isn't helping. Which means that no hurricanes are allowed to ruin my birthday this year. Hear that, Dean? That means go away. I do not need you to blow out my candles for me.

Priorities

Max: {{Sigh}}
Me: What's up?
Max: Nothing. I just wish I had two days off sometimes. (Max works six days a week, about 12 hours a day)
Me: I do admire your work ethic though.
Max: {{Laughs}} Thanks.
Me: No, seriously. I just worked for two months and I need a week off.
Max: Well, soon you'll be starting school again.
Me: {{Sigh}} I know. I hope it doesn't interfere with my social life.

Homework

The blogger home page has just informed me that I haven't updated since July 7. I suck, and I apologize to all five people who read this on a regular basis. But I'm updating now! Sort of, although I guess I'm going to have to go back to work in a minute or two. See, I'm working from home right now, and I thought it was going to be all great and vacay-like, and I would wear my pajamas all day, but mostly I just feel guilty. I felt guilty when I put my laundry in the wash, despite the fact that it only took up two minutes. I felt guilty when I ate lunch, even thought I do that on a regular basis while at the office. I felt guilty when I facebooked for a couple minutes, even though I also do that while at the office. It's like being at home has made all those random little brain-breaks that I take during the day feel worse. I mean, while at the office I do the same things (except for my laundry, obviously), but at least I'm at the office, and I can justify two minutes here and there because, for one, I have to constantly be on the alert that my boss will walk into my office, and two, because I have to be there, and thus should be compensated for my time away the more noble pursuits of laying around in the sun and drinking daiquiris. But here, partially because I expected that I might slack off a little bit, I feel much worse about it when I fulfill my own low expectations of myself. And on that note, I'm starting to feel a little bad about the fact that I'm not currently being all legal-minded, so it's back to work for me.

Natasha Bedingfield, I kind of hate you right now

So, Mike over at In It But Not of Of It wrote this really insulting entry about how Natasha Bedingfield's new song "serves as an insulting (but probably accurate) anthem for women everywhere." Since he kindly provided the video along with the entry and that little gem of wisdom, let me say that after watching it, I'm just insulted. That is not my anthem, but more like my closest idea of the ninth circle of hell. Babies crawling around everywhere? Shudder. Do guys seriously think that all women think like this? Please, tell me the answer is no.

Missin' you, and your sexy fightin' ways

Sob! You guys don't visit me as much anymore. I'm guessing that this is because half of my friends have deleted their blogs, or maybe because we're all working instead of sitting in class trying our best not to pay attention, but fine, I see how it is. However, apparently my blog attracts some odd visitors. Or maybe the visitors themselves aren't odd, but the search terms that they use to get here certainly are. For example, this week, featured search terms include:

"Don't fight a bigger woman" - sort of makes me wonder what the intended destination is, as I'm a lover, not a fighter. And even if I were the latter, I'm kinda wimpy and would thus probably lose any fight with someone bigger than myself.

"Real friends dont fight" - what's up with all the violence people?

Previous winners have included my post on the porn-loving sorority girls, because apparently, porn is a very popular search term. Who would've thought? Oh, and the boob test post, since boobs are also exceedingly popular.

Basically, this whole post has no point whatsoever, except to point out that a blog about law school, my darling friends, and the occasional breast exam, attracts accident visitors looking for blogs about fighting, porn, and the occasional breast exam. I guess one out of three ain't bad, huh?

Friends don't let friends commit fashion felonies

My friend Erica and I have often bonded over our shared taste in clothing, which skews slightly toward that of a seventeen-year-old with a fondness for Forever 21. But today, she sent me an email describing an intended purchase so baffling that even I, who own a dress made out of something resembling PVC (I've only ever worn it on Halloween, I swear), couldn't keep quiet. That item, my friends, is the terry cloth, short-short onesie.

To: Liza Jane
From: Erica
Re: (no subject)

Liza,
I hate to tell you this, because it's likely to ruin our friendship forever. But....here it goes. I think I'm going to buy, and wear, a short-short tube jumpsuit with contrasting trim. Possibly terrycloth. The good news is that I refuse to buy a velour one. That has to count for something. Because I can't hide my love for them anymore. And how trashy and wonderful they look with white pvc heels, or a large-chain gold necklace. Or both! I'm so sorry, and I hope you can understand someday. If you never want to be seen with me again, I understand. Just know that I love you, and I'm really sorry that you may have to let this come between us.
Erica

To: Erica
From: Liza
Re: Re: (no subject)

Erica,
Darling, you know that I could never stop loving you, even though you're planning to combine three things that could loosely be described as a beach cover-up, stripper chic, and ghetto fabulous. I have to say, that particular combination goes together about as well as ice cream, pickles, and BBQ sauce. And your refusal to buy velour merely cuts down slightly on the ghetto fabulous end, so don't think that you're getting off any easier. So, as much as I love you, I feel that I must warn you that there will be an intervention awaiting your return to New Orleans. I can't say when for sure, but I have faith that our friends, fearing for your well-being, will join me wholeheartedly.
For now, be well, and just remember that I'd only do this for your own good.
Always and forever (in spite of, or perhaps because of, questionable choice in clothing items),
Liz
P.S. I'm cc'ing Meg on this. I just don't feel that I can keep it from her, given its severity.

The sad part about all of this is that Meg and I realized at some point that Erica would likely look fabulous in this unholy creation, given her general teenyness and perfect booty. I'm so ashamed.

But seriously people, the power of that booty is strong. You'd be helpless too.

You're It

So I got tagged for this... here goes...

INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1) FeistyMnGirl
2) What Greg Likes
3) A Blog of a Good Time
4) Hoosier Joe
5) Don't Fight My Hypo

Select five people to tag:

1) Asenath
2) LSD
3) Ashley
4) Maria
5) Heddy

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Lemme see here. I was 15, which means that I wasn’t eating much (I had some issues) and distressing my parents by said lack of appetite.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Still in school, despite the fact that, as in the present, it was summer. Apparently, giant hurricanes will land you in class on a Saturday.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1) Cheese, all kinds of it, lactose intolerance be damned
2) Chips, especially Cool Ranch Doritos
3) Pita with hummus
4) Beer. What? That’s totally a snack.
5) Rice cakes, for when I’m feeling healthy

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:
Shit, this is gonna be embarrassing…
1) Anything by Britney Spears (told you it would be embarrassing)
2) Born to Run – The Boss
3) Glamourous - Fergie
4) Synthesizer – Electric Six
5) How Do You Want It – Tupac, b/c apparently, I think I can rap

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1) I would buy a house on the beach and do nothing for the rest of my life but concentrate on premature wrinkles
2) Hold on, I’m still thinking about the beach…
3) Move to Paris and buy a fantastic house
4) Move to Venice and buy a house on the Grand Canal
5) Donate a ton of money to stem cell research

Five bad habits:
1) Getting blind drunk and forcing my cab driver to drive all over New Orleans looking for my lost credit card even though I later find out that it’s in my wallet (that only happened once, but still)
2) Never doing laundry
3) Spending too much mone, y on clothes that I don’t actually need
4) Occasionally having drunken cigarettes
5) Facebooking

Five things you like doing:
1) Shopping (see list of bad habits)
2) Hanging out near bodies of water (yes, the Tulane social pool counts)
3) Eating sushi with the ladies
4) Watching horrendously bad TV (See, ANTM, The Girls Next Door, etc., etc.)
5) Centering entire nights around eating too much and watching Grey’s or Top Chef with the girls


Five things you would never wear again:
1) Overalls
2) Acid washed jeans
3) Skinny jeans – they flatter no one, and should not have come back
4) Chunky shoes
5) Critter pants – this is something that I’ve never worn, obviously, but feel very strongly about. Guys, just DON’T go there.

Five favorite toys:
1) The Rabbit. Anyone who’s ever had one knows that the Sex and the City episode centered around said toy is totally correct.
2) Poindexter – my giant stuffed red dog. And no, his name is not Clifford.
3) My iPod.
4) My laptop.
5) My future Kitchenaid mixer – I don’t have one yet, because I can’t force myself to spend that much on a baking appliance, but one day it will be mine, and I will love it. Maybe in Surf Green, or yellow, or Mango.

Good luck

Happy June 1st! That's right, it's officially hurricane season. That magical day of the year when the Gulf Coast starts to brace itself. So get out your rabbit's feet, cross your fingers, and let's hope for another quiet one.

Y'all come back now

Dear Tourists,
Hey, what's up? Nice to have you here, helping out the economy and whatnot, but before your drinking and disaster tour begins, a few words of wisdom.

- On drinking: New Orleans probably has more bars per square foot than any other city in the US. Therefore, we expect you to party while you're here. But please, try not to throw up on the sidewalk. Yes, it happens occasionally. Sometimes you just can't make it back to your hotel. But before you get to that point ask yourself this: would I be happy about if someone threw up in my front yard? No, you wouldn't. It's gross and smells funny. So please, if you can, try to hold it in. We'll thank you for it.

- On traffic: It's not acceptable to cross the street, anywhere, anytime, with no regard for the traffic patterns, and then look scandalized when someone nearly runs you over. It's just not. This is doubly true if you happen to have a stroller with you. A stroller, to me, says "hey, be careful. You're responsible for not only your own life, but someone else's as well." So, if you step off the curb without looking, right into oncoming traffic, don't flip me off. You have no one to blame but yourself.

- On flashing: no, I'm not going to show you my tits. No way, no how. Give up. Yes, your beads are shiny and pretty. They're also $1.50/dozen next door. Thus, your dangling string of plastic baubles isn't nearly as exciting as you think it is. Seriously, stop asking. Only other tourists will flash you anyway.

That's all for now folks. So have fun, sample a daiquiri or two, take some pictures, enjoy your stay here in the Big Easy. And just remember, the Hurricanes are much stronger than you think they are.

Flippin' termites

Imagine a woman on the edge, half yelling, half crying with frustration, waving the vacuum hose around frantically in the air...

...and you have me, tonight. I fucking hate termite season.

Lazy Sunday (and Monday, and Tuesday...)

As many of you know, my current employment situation is, shall we say, nonexistent. It appears that good grades and a willingness to fetch coffee just to have something to write on your resume don't exactly go as far as they used to. So, currently, until I give in and decide to work for free serving the legal needs of other unemployed persons, I have titled myself a woman of leisure, which sounds fun, but I have a low tolerance for boredom. A rundown of my post-finals activities so far:

Tuesday: Superior margaritas by the pool
Wednesday: Superior margaritas. Drive friends home after said margaritas. Pool closed for the day.
Thursday: Hmmm, don't remember actually. Ah yes, now I've got it. Shopping for post-finals party costume, followed by Grey's night with the ladies.
Friday: post-finals party. May have had a wee bit too much to drink, followed by a cab ride of which we shall never speak again. Lose phone, and sunglasses.
Saturday: wake up, still partially intoxicated. Email all friends to apologize for behavior of the previous night, or what I remember of it. Friends assure me that I am still loveable. Eventually cab myself to uptown to retrieve car and phone, which someone kindly found and babysat for me. Vow never to drink again, and nurse hangover while watching most of the first season of Ugly Betty.
Sunday: Mother's day brunch, although not with my mother. More Ugly Betty watching and lounging.
Monday: lounge by pool until chased off by rain clouds. Email with friend who is gainfully employed about her first day of work. Go out for sushi. Bake cookies.
Tuesday: drive friend to car dealership (being the only one who is both an early riser and also unfettered by obligations like working). Take cat to vet. Come home and think about cleaning. Nap for an hour and a half instead. All entertainment options appear to be exhausted. Compose blog post.

So, there you have it. One week, and I'm already bored with my busy schedule of lounging around doing nothing. Shopping is out, as unemployment doesn't carry with it much of a salary. The weather is conspiring against my tan. Eating out every day is also out (again with the salary issues), and cleaning my apartment is boring.

Anyone need to have their coffee fetched?

Workin' on my fitness

7:00, French Quarter, morning run

Decatur St. Tiki Bar: run by bar. Am greeted by the smell of stale smoke and beer. Peer inside as I run by to find that, yes, there are actually people in there, drinking at 7:00 in the morning. Wonder if they've been there all night, or if they just got off of work. Wonder how much I'd have to rearrange my schedule before I considered it normal to start my "evening" at 7:00 a.m.

Decatur St., Jackson Square: run by horse carriage docking area. A bit funky, but not a big deal. Keep running.

Royal St. and Jackson Square: nearly run into man ambling down the street. He takes this as an invitation to hit on me. Decide that he must have been up all night, since I'm not exactly at my most attractive when all red-faced and panting. He yells that he likes my shorts as I run by. Suspicion that he has been up all night is confirmed.

Bourbon: strange homeless woman laughs at me and says something like "well aren't you funny." Would laugh, but lungs are about to explode.

Frenchman and Chartres: stop running briefly to catch my breath. Nose is violently struck by the fact that it's trash day and it's already 80 degrees outside. Am forced to start running again in order not to choke on the fumes. Suppose that this is one way to get in shape.

Note to self: this is so much more interesting than the elliptical.

Would the real Liza please come back?

Normally, during finals, I attempt to remain at least mostly cheerful. If that means I have to fake it every once in a while, that's fine with me. If it means that less cheerful people want to smack me upside the head, that's fine too. However, this latest round of finals seems to have brought out some sort of cranky, bitter, and slightly alcoholic alter ego. So, with that, I'll be back after finals are over next Tuesday, or as soon as I regain my former disposition, whichever comes first.
Cheers,
Liza

Hush

There is something strange that happens to law students near the end of the semester. People are stressed out, panicky even. They realize they're unprepared, or underprepared. It happens when your whole grade hinges on one arbitrarily graded exam. So it's no surprise that on the last day of classes for the semester, the sudden urge to make up for being a shitty student all semester is even more intense. People start asking the darndest questions...at the worst moments. I'm speaking of the end of class, the two minutes or so before we're all about to be released for the semester. The professor winds up, prepares to bask in the expected applause of a group of students who are either impressed with his teaching or just gloriously happy to leave, and suddenly, inevitably, a hand goes up. Now, what is so important that it can't wait? Generally, end of class questions are asked by gunners and thus have no real bearing on the class for the rest of us. They are better left to email, and are annoying under the best of circumstances. But when it's the last day of class, and he's about to let us leave early, DO NOT raise your hand. Leave it down. Resist the urge to show off how smart you are. The class will thank you. If you don't in fact resist, people will stare disbelievingly at the back of your head while you ramble on about the minutiae of the last four months. They will curse you under their breath. They might even be forced to sit on their hands so that they don't chuck a book at the back of your head. Really, it's better to just keep quiet and let it ride. You can always get to it later (as a serious procrastinator, I know this to be true). So mind your mothers and remember: if you don't have anything to nice (or helpful, productive, or worthy of attention) to say, just don't say anything at all.

Sluts? Or Goddesses?

Today, at the pool, this little gem of a conversation reached my ears:
Sorostitute 1: I watched History of Porn last night.
Sorostitute 2: Are you doing extra credit?
S 1: Yeah, totally. It's incredible, I get to watch porn for extra credit. We started watching Sluts and Goddesses too.
S 2: I don't know if this is true, but I heard one of them fucks a tree.
S 1: She does fuck a tree!
Sorostitute 3: Huh, maybe I'd like it.
S 1: It's like really new-age, artsy, ultra-feminist porn. You wouldn't like it.

I guess now I know what kind of person hears the words "tree fucking" and thinks "Now that's something I could get into."

I call bullshit

You know what bugs me? Movies where people accept some sort of lesser existence than what they started with. Let me just preface this by saying that I watch really bad movies, so ummm, try not to laugh. Like, the other day I watching Jersey Girl. Ben Affleck has this great job as a publicist in New York and this fabulous apartment in the city and presumably quite a bit of money, and then his wife gets pregnant and he has a little girl but the wife dies and he loses his job and, long story short, 7 or so years later he ends up blowing off a job interview that would get him back in the business and the fabulous apartment so that he can go to a school play. And then today I was watching Just My Luck (told you I watched bad movies) and the Lindsay Lohan character has a fantastic life that she gives up for some guy and turns into a walking calamity but she's in loooooove so it's all okay. And then there's The Family Man, where Nick Cage gives up his incredible apartment and his money and his girlfriend in her slinky black negligee and his Porsche (or something such fancy car) for his high school sweetheart and her bratty kids in New Jersey. And I have a problem with this, a serious problem people! No one has everything and then is somehow happy giving it all up to live with much, much less. I call bullshit. If it were me, with the fabulous job and all the money and whatnot, I'd kiss my faux Jersey family goodbye, head back to the city in my Porsche, and climb back into bed with negligee-wearing girlfriend. Seriously, next time that I turn on a movie and the lead learns some sort of ridiculous cosmic lesson and I'm supposed to swallow the idea that said character is somehow happier in the grand scheme of things, I'm gonna throw my TV out the window.

Another short post

Why did it have to be on Monday that I managed to sit in a little pool of coffee at 7:15 in the morning on my longest day of classes? Why not the day that I only have to be here for an hour and a half? Cue feeling sorry for myself.

The good life

Noon: Wake up for the second time. Realize that car is still in French Quarter. Find VIP card from strip club in purse.

It was a good night.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

I don't know what the next line of that old song is, but for me it's definitely "Back to writing a 40-70 page comment for the journal." How's that for coming back from vacation? Regardless, Spring Break was a good time. I look a bit like a lobster, but I guess that's to be expected from someone whose normal skin tone is in the pale and freckly range. On the plus side, several of my freckles seem to have connected, making it appear as though I have extra melanin somewhere under the surface. Anyway, without further ado, some Spring Break highlights:
- It would seem that BBH and I have some awesome McDonald's karma. Two meals for the price of half of one? 3000+ calories for $4? That's what I call happiness.
- On the same subject, it would seem that most girls who go to Florida for Spring Break don't eat all that much. At least, this is the only way that I can explain the reactions of our waiters to our mammoth orders. Even better though, was the range of facial expressions garnered by the fact that not only do we order eight baskets of breadsticks, but eat every single one of them. I thought our waiter that night was gonna laugh when he offered us dessert. Strangely enough, it would seem that laying on the beach and consuming my body weight in seafood is good for the figure, since I lost a couple of pounds.
- Apparently, proximity to the ocean makes me even clumsier than normal. BBH has rechristened me Zero Gravity in light of the many face-plants that I did into the sand. Strangely, I was mostly sober for most of them.
- A relative lack of drama. You know, because most times that you put eight girls into two hotel rooms, you're in store for some hair pullin'.
- The sexiest way to save water...that's for you PP.

Anyway, as you can see, Spring Break was relatively uneventful, which is just the way that I like it. Now back to my commenting, by which, of course, I mean facebooking.

Boobs!

Ha! While I may have walked around with my bathing suit top on upside down for three hours yesterday, it would seem that I do still have one area of genius. I took this quiz that tests you to see whether you can tell the difference between real and fake boobs, and I got 19/20. I'm really way too proud of myself for this.

Indulging my laziness on the beach

So, yes, it's been a while since I last posted. This is because nothing particularly noteworthy, funny, etc. has happened to me in the last few weeks. Law school has just been law school, with no random events to turn into a post. Today is no different, but I wanted to let all ten of my readers know that I probably won't be posting for the next week either, because I'll be on the beach. That wonderful time of year known as Spring Break is upon us, and I plan on indulging my desire to do absolutely nothing. Except for my journal comment, which, cruelly enough, is due the Friday after I return. So wish me nice weather and I'll be back next Saturday, hopefully with some good adventures to report.

Update: Benjamin Button

So, the coffee company across the street has kindly agreed to let me and Max use their parking lot while the movie people are here. Thus, having erased all traces of annoyance at not being able to park in front of my house, I can fully concentrate on my Brad-stalking endeavors. The craft services area is in full swing, and is beginning to resemble a circus, but still no Brad sightings. What I really need is a dog so that I can snap its leash on and wander around the neighborhood without looking like I'm wandering around the neighborhood solely in the hopes of seeing Brad Pitt. Hmmm, I wonder if Mosquito would consent to being on a leash.

Benjamin Button

The other day a friend of mine posted about the general annoyance that accompanies the filming of a movie in one's neighborhood. I read the post and thought to myself "But Asenath, it's Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt." Well, I got home today, and there was a little notice in my door saying that they would be filming in my neighborhood and that I would be unable to park on my street for three days, starting tomorrow. Anyone who's read my previous post about parking knows that I hate it when I can't park at my house. Plus, people get shot near my neighborhood. Not a lot, but it's been known to happen, especially lately. So, all I gotta say is that I better not get mugged, or heads are gonna roll. As preemptive measure, I propose that Brad himself should walk me home to protect me. That, I am sure, would erase all annoyance caused by lack of parking. You know, it's just a suggestion.

Isn't it ironic*

It would seem that everytime I think that something is never going to happen, I'm going to be wrong. Last semester, when I thought that I aced my Income Tax exam, I ended up getting a completely average grade on it. I thought that I failed my EU final, and it ended up being my highest grade. Yesterday, I made the executive decision to give up on the job search, accept the fact that no one was going to hire me, and go to Siena for the summer to learn about International Art Law. When I got home to check my email, I found that I'd been selected for one of the spring interviews. This is both annoying, because I was really into the idea of going to Italy, and comforting, because maybe I'll get the job and I can stop worrying that I'm going to unemployed and in debt forever. So, I'm going to test my theory and stop wishing that I were filthy rich. Hopefully, if I'm right, I'll win the lottery.

*I never use this word, because despite having looked up the definition any number of times, I can never tell if I'm using it in the right way or not. So, anyway, if I'm wrong, please don't tell me.

The day after Mardi Gras

Ever have "just one of those days"? Yeah, me too. A chronicle of events:

5:00 Wake up when Max's alarm goes off. Toss and turn.
7:00 Wake up when my alarm goes off. Want nothing more than to go back to sleep. Hit snooze button three times.
8:30 Realize there is nothing to eat in the whole house. Leave the house early so that I can pick up McDonald's on the way to school.
8:45 Drop hashbrown bits on my shirt, which instantly create grease stain. Put handy sweatshirt on.
8:47 Have somehow managed to get grease on sweatshirt arm too.
8:50 Realize that I have worn the jeans that, just the other day, developed a hole in a rather sensitive area. Think to myself "not to worry, you have the sweatshirt. Just tie it around your waist." Realize that sweatshirt is hiding stain on t-shirt. Resolve to sit all day with my legs crossed.
9:00 Park five blocks from school to avoid getting a ticket for being parked over two hours. Splash through the rain to law building. Jeans now soaked halfway up my calves.
9:05 Arrive at school to finish homework that I didn't do the night before. Turn on computer to find assignment, and realize I have left my power cord at home. Debate which class to skip so that I can go home and get it. Realize that I could have parked closer if only staying for one class.
10-11:15 Sit in class, bored out of my mind. Realize that I should have skipped this class.
11:15 Leave building to go get power cord. Breathe sigh of relief that morning is almost over.

Seriously, what the f***

I don't how many guys read this blog, probably none, but if there any of you out there, maybe you can answer me a question: what is it, exactly, that makes certain members of the male gender feel that yelling rude things at a girl is somehow effective, or even marginally okay? It's incomprehensible to me. I was walking back through the Quarter to my car about a half hour ago and this pack of six or so guys decided that now would be a good time to pick on the girl walking by herself. I'm not going to repeat what they said, but it definitely started with "Shake it" and got progressively cruder. For some reason, the fact that I felt the need to actually cross the street didn't seem to get the message across. Trust me, gentleman, if a girl takes affirmative steps to get the hell away from you, she doesn't want to talk to you. She wants you to shut the fuck up and go away. Really, has it ever worked? Because I doubt seriously that a girl has ever stopped, turned around and said "Take me home with you right now." I mean, I'm sure that any guy that feels the need to demoralize me in the middle of the street would be a really terrific lay, and probably incredibly generous in bed. I don't really know why this particular group pissed me off so much, probably because they were so obnoxiously persistent, going so far as to cross the street with me. I actually drove home sort of half hoping that I'd see them on the side of the street, so that I could jump the curb and break their legs, because any damage to my car and resulting jail time would probably be worth it. I just don't understand, because that sort of behavior doesn't make you look attractive, or cool, and anything else you might have been hoping to achieve, but instead just makes you look like a mysogenistic fucktard.

Judgy McJudgerson

It's come to my attention that lately, I may have been just a little bit judgmental. Normally, I consider myself pretty open-minded, whatever you want to do is totally okay with me, but sometimes I hear about something and my two cents just comes right on out. Take yesterday, for example. On our way to the parades, some friends and I were discussing some of the Girls Gone Wild girls who, after seeing their images from Spring Break plastered onto late night television, decided to sue the creators. Apparently, one of their arguments was that the creators had assured them that their images wouldn't be broadcast. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Whatever, I can't believe that they actually believed that. I mean, seriously, how dumb can you get?
Tara: Liza! You're supposed to be a feminist. Side with the ladies.
Me: Feminism my ass. If you even have a faint idea what Girls Gone Wild is, you wouldn't believe that.
Ann: Imagine that you're from a small town and you're 18 and on Spring Break, and a little wasted...
Me: I am from a small town, I'm just not an idiot, so therefore I can't imagine it.
Chorus: Compassion Liza! You're supposed to empathize!
Me: Humph. Judge, judge, judge, judge, judge (said while wagging my head back and forth on each "judge," because I feeling mature.)
Pink Pirate: So you side with the Girls Gone Wild guy, the sleazy, sober, old man convincing these young girls to do things?
Me: No, I don't like him either. I'm neutral, like Switzerland. I'm a judgmental Switzerland.

So, yes, I was feeling a little judgmental. In my defense, if I actually knew these girls I probably wouldn't feel the same way, because while I might be a little judgy, I'm also loyal. I tend to side with my friends no matter what. Like, if one of them robbed a bank, I'd probably find a way to post bail and then ask her if she was in trouble and needed to borrow some money. And I usually regret being all judgy as soon as I actually take the time to learn all of the facts, and am then forced to eat my words and admit that I may have been wrong, maybe. So, see, I'm a nice person. A sweet, loyal, judgmental Switzerland.

The gods of weather

It would seem that the weather gods kind of hate the fair city of New Orleans. See, first there was that big hurricane that everyone talks about all the time (not that there's anything wrong with that), then, shortly after the start of the year in 2006 there was another big storm. Just a winter storm, really, but apparently in the south they come with tornadoes*. Lots of tornadoes, that just happen to like to hang out in New Orleans East. Remember, that place where all those people lost everything they had? Yeah, they like it there. So, things are quiet this hurricane season and I'm guessing the weather gods got to thinking to themselves "I wonder how New Orleans is doing? They must be rebuilding there or something. We can't let them get too complacent, surely. Let's give them a little taste of what they missed this summer." So they sent another winter storm our way, and there were tornadoes, and they decided that New Orleans East and Gentilly would be a great place to touch down. So they came through and ripped a roof off of a motel holding a bunch of evacuees and tore up the upper floors, and then another one came over to Uptown and hit an electric substation. Fun stuff, really. And yet, when people ask me what I like about New Orleans, the answer always seem to include "Well, the weather's much better here than up North." Go figure.

*Strangely, I am much more terrified of tornadoes than hurricanes. They're way more sudden, and none of the homes here in New Orleans include basements that one might be able to hide out in. So I spent much of the very early morning, looking at the strobe light-ish lightning, cowering and wondering if the study would make a good tornado shelter. Probably not, for what it lacks in windows it makes up for in a big, rickety wooden door.

Lost

New Orleans isn’t always the easiest city to get around. Normal directions don’t make as much sense, since it’s shaped like a crescent, so we tend to rely on directions like “Uptown, downtown, lake, and river” instead. Once you get used to it, it’s not so bad, but occasionally, a little confusion may linger, as evidenced by this encounter with a friend last week:

I call a friend (let’s call her PPN) on my cell phone while driving home, knowing she’s close to my house: Hey, what’s up?
PPN: Hey! I’m about two minutes away from your house right now.
Me: Me too, I’ll see you there.

Several minutes later my phone rings again...
PPN: Hey, umm, did you happen to see my car when you were driving home? I can’t find it. And I’m freezing.
Me: No…where are you?
PPN: Pauger and Dauphine?
Me: I don’t think I know where that is. I mean, I know where it is, but I can’t picture it.
PPN: Okay, how about Dauphine and Royal?
Me: I thought they ran parallel to each other.
…After a couple more tries, I ask if she wants me to come get her and help her find her car, which she does. One wrong turn later, I find PPN and we start driving around, slowly, looking for her car...

PPN: I think I’m across Esplanade. I don’t get it; it only took me a minute to get to the restaurant.
Me: These streets are confusing. They all mesh together and it’s like parking in the Bermuda Triangle (it’s actually the Marigny triangle, but seriously, just as confusing).
…We drive across Esplanade and are now in the Quarter, which I seem to remember as a grid…

Me: Wait a second, where did our street go? Seriously, it was supposed to be right here.
PPN: I think I parked on the next one up.
Me: You parked on Bourbon?
PPN: I don’t know, I think they started merging at some point.
Me: Wait, the streets don’t merge over here, they merge over on that side.
PPN (pointing): Isn’t Uptown that way?
Me (also pointing): No, it’s that way. (Both of us start laughing, since we’ve just spent ten minutes driving around trying to find a car in the wrong neighborhood.)

We finally find the car, after driving down a few more streets, with my friend hanging her arm out of the window repeatedly hitting her alarm button. It's a little embarassing, really, since I actually live all of one minute away from the spot where we eventually found her car. Seriously though, can I help it if the street I'm looking for keeps disappearing?

My bad

So, sorry I haven't been posting much lately. Part of it is probably that I'm lazy, but part of it is that I'm just so damn sick of law school that I haven't really felt all that snarky/funny lately. Like, I love my school in general and my friends, but all the little stuff that actually goes into law school has been a big ol' drag. Anyway, I promise to start posting more, so that my ladies trapped in said law school have a little more to read.

News of the unexpected

I don't normally think of New Orleans as country, but after today, I may be forced to reevaluate my position. I was driving home today, taking a shortcut through the bad neighborhood that borders mine, when I saw this big animal in the street. I couldn't really figure out what it was, and at first I thought it was a cat, but I soon realized it was a bird, a really big bird. Pigeons certainly don't get that big, so I slowed down to take a look. What was in the road? A rooster. A big, colorful rooster, pecking at some random food that had been thrown into the street. Who has to swerve around a rooster in New Orleans? It's weird, right? I mean, I saw a lot of roosters in Hawaii, where they're strangely abundant, and my hometown is basically on the border of Amish country, so no surprise there, but in New Orleans? And not just New Orleans, but ghetto New Orleans. Pink Pirate has suggested cockfighting as the cause for my run-in with the rooster. I'm hoping that's not the case, because I find them sort of cute. Either way, this city just keeps surprising me.

As promised, back to our regularly scheduled bitching

Dear Lady in Front of Me at the Grocery Store,
Holy Mother of God, why are you writing a check for your groceries? More to the point, why are you not only writing a check, but taking 10 minutes to do so? Your signature needn't be in perfect calligraphic form. If you're worried that maybe the bank won't recognize your writing, trust me when I say that they'll take away your money, messy signature or not. In the meantime, you're holding the rest of us up, and I've been fidgeting and sort of rolling my eyes for a while now, in the hopes that it will induce you to hurry up. See, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're in the express lane, where people come to check out when they aren't buying that much or are, presumably, in a hurry. Look, it even says "Speedy Checkout" right there on the sign above the register. So, seriously, move your ass, because although I have nowhere important to be, I'd rather not stand in this line forever. And next time, remember your debit card. You know, that convenient little piece of plastic that is much faster than your antiquated checkbook? Although I don't like necessarily like Visa's recent commercials, or agree that the card is faster than cash, it's certainly faster than a checkbook, and it would really make me happy if you'd use it.
Thanks,
The Impatient Girl Standing Behind You

I'm almost back

Sorry for the long absence...classes start again on Monday, so it'll be back to our regularly scheduled bitching.