Running Away from the Bar

Well, the bar is over. I should probably feel more overjoyed, and to my credit I did let out an ecstatic whoop in the car yesterday after leaving the Convention Center, but I don't think it went well. I think that's why I don't feel relaxed - because I don't feel done. If I'd felt better about the whole thing, I wouldn't be thinking "but what if I have to take it again?" The thought of returning in October is marring what is a legitimate accomplishment, win or lose. So instead of celebrating yesterday, I spent most of the day with my phone turned off, avoiding happy people so that I wouldn't bring them down with my bad attitude.

But, enough with the bad news. After running pretty regularly since last October-ish, I finally did a 5K this morning! I didn't even really mean to. I just started off on my regular running route and decided to go a little further, and ended up on a 3.5 mile course around the local park. I kept telling myself "just go a little further and you'll be home soon," or "you can stop at this tree." But I didn't - I'd get to the tree and realize I could keep going a little more, and eventually, I made it the whole way back to start without collapsing once (although I did walk halfway up one of Pittsburgh's crazy-steep hills). So, while I may not be proud of my performance on the Bar, I'm definitely proud of this, and it makes me think that maybe I'll be ready to run a half-marathon for real this year, especially since Pittsburgh is bringing the marathon back after a 6 year hiatus (or maybe 5, who knows?). I like to think that at least I channeled my bar rage into something good, because I'm pretty sure that's what kept me going past miles 2 and 3. It's a teeny silver lining, but at least it's there.

Back in Five

Actually six, or is it seven? Days, that is, until the bar is over and I've turned back into something resembling a normal human being, rather than someone who is in a constant state of barely controlled panic. The bar is four days away (including today), and I'm freaking out. I just watched that episode of Grey's about the girl who fails the bar five times and has to be admitted to psych because she holds her hand on a burner to get out of taking it again. I probably should've turned it off when I realized the episode that I was watching. Anyway, the point is, I'm a spaz, so I'll be back when my thoughts are once again free to wander to something other than Civil Procedure.

Is it a bad idea to go work out at 9:00 at night when you've just had a lot of wine? I mean, I think it is, but I could be wrong since I've been drinking my feelings (stress, fear of failure, stress) all night long. Lord, I can't wait till the bar is over.

Who you callin' chicken?

Normally I don't feel bad about what I'm eating. I occasionally think about the animals that my food comes from, but I'm a hardcore carnivore, so I usually just push it to the back of my mind. It's easy to do, since I buy all of my food nicely trimmed and ready to go, and it doesn't resemble its source so much as yummy, yummy bacon (or, you know, whatever, but I really have a thing for bacon). Anyway, Max is currently in the kitchen, making arroz con pollo, which requires a whole roasting chicken. I bought the chicken and brought it home, before realizing that this meant he'd have to butcher it. And Max is not a clean cooker. Last time he made chicken I found raw bits on several of the cabinet doors. So I volunteered to do it if he'd show me how.

Max: "Crack the spine."
Me: "What?!?!"

I stared at the chicken. Suddenly, it seemed not so dinner-like. But I took my knife and did the deed, then sat there sadly stroking the raw chicken for a couple minutes and telling it that I was sorry. No, really, and it takes a lot to get me to even touch raw chicken, so I must have felt really bad about it.

Seeing as how there's more to butchering a chicken than splitting it, there was more work to do. Which I did, but the whole time I was thinking that I was going to feel a little bad about eating it later. And talking to it, telling it that I was sorry for such a heartless fate.

The thing is, I'm probably still going to be a carnivore, because for one thing, it's so much easier, and for another, meat tastes good. Max suggested a while ago that we give up pork and red meat, and I sort of agreed, but it was reluctant and we haven't actually done it yet. Mostly because every time that I'm ready to take the plunge, I think about bacon. And burgers. Turkey burgers are a good substitute, but there is no substitute for bacon. And don't even talk about turkey bacon, because it's not the same thing. For one thing, it's not greasy and crispy, which is a prerequisite for a good breakfast meat. But maybe from now on I'll at least tell the bacon that I'm sorry. Small comfort, I'm sure.

This post is solely for my benefit so that I can vent and curse

What the hell was I thinking going to law school?! This is ridiculous. I'm going to fail the bar. Fuck the bar. Fuck law school. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I'm in a totally horrendous mood. Stupid contracts outline. There is no possible way to learn all of these subjects before next Tuesday. I will have to tell all of my friends that I am the dumbass who failed. I will have to tell my family that I failed. I will have spent $4600 on Bar-Bri for nothing.

Fuck.

Do Not Adjust Your Sets

This is the same blog as always, just prettier. I was inspired to update by my friend Some Girl, and like her, I must give kudos to the lovely lady who created this design. The pink was getting on my nerves, and besides, this is more me. I mean, it's quite uncanny really, since I look exactly like the girl in the picture up there.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

As most of you know, I lived in New Orleans for the last three years. And, as most of you know, New Orleans isn't exactly low-crime. Shit happens all the time. Not to me though. With the sole exception of some crazy dude following me around a couple of years ago, my car (Goldie) was safe and sound in her neighborhood outside the Quarter for that whole three years. We had people parking there all of the time. It was a hotbed of drunken foolishness. But I never had any problems, aside from a random beer can left on the hood of my car.

About a week and a half ago, I moved to Pittsburgh. I live in a nice, middle class neighborhood with one of the lowest crime rates in the city. There's an option to park in a garage, or off the street, but there's a waiting list and I figured "why bother?" There's plenty of off-street parking, no big deal. Not so. Today, I go out to my car, hoping to go to Whole Foods to get some dinner that was neither hot dog, nor pizza, nor chicken salad. Instead, I walk up to my car and as I get closer, I see all this glass beside my parking space. No way, I think to myself. I drive a 95 Mazda with nothing stealable in it, and though fabulous in its own way, not exactly a target car, so surely this is not my car's problem. Turns out it was. Some jackass decided that it would be a good idea to smash in my front window and steal nothing (or so I thought, more on that later). There is glass everywhere. So I, having had a bad day anyway, call the police, trying not to cry with sheer frustration. Didn't work. I practically sob out my address and 10 minutes later (one benefit of living in a functional city), the cops show up, file a report, tell me to call if I need anything else. All in all, it wasn't so bad, I guess. There was nothing of value in my car, although being broke and frustrated by the bar, the expense in mental health is so not worth any gain to the resident stupid criminals.

A few minutes after the police have left: I go and clean my car out, and tape up the window, remove the artwork from the truck, and generally make it look as empty as possible. As I'm doing so, I realize that they have stolen something. What did they take? What was worth the dignity of my window? Fucking cassette tapes. CASSETTE TAPES! They've probably been in my center console since the car was purchased. Bet that fetched a lot on the black market you total fucking idiots. I honestly hope that they get run over. It would be karmic perfection. I'm not a violent person, but I wish violence on these people. A friend suggested that the proper punishment would be to take the sheets of glass lying in my car and break them over the heads of these morons. I think it's fitting, personally. I mean, honestly, cassette tapes. I keep saying it over and over in my head and it still makes no sense. I have to spend in the neighborhood of $200 to fix a window for some fucking tapes that total about $3 in value, which I'm guessing isn't even enough to buy crack. Welcome to the neighborhood indeed. I'm putting myself on the waiting list for a parking space.

Living Well is the Best Revenge

Normally, I try not to take pleasure in others' misfortune. After all, schadenfreude is unflattering and generally kind of icky. However, for some I'll make an exception.

I went out to lunch yesterday with one of my best friends from college. We ended up picking up where we'd left off and talking for three hours and, during this time, she gave me this little tidbit to snack on: apparently, my ex-boyfriend (I've written about him before. He's the one who set the couch on fire while drunk one night and ran down the street naked after we'd had an argument. Several times.) didn't get only one DUI after we'd broken up (as I'd thought), but three. He went to JAIL! Anyway, like I said, normally I might feel bad for someone so obviously messed up, but this dude made my life miserable for four years. MISERABLE. He was an awful cheating bastard, and I guess you could call this comeuppance. The best part is that his parents were always convinced that I was some gold digger after his trust fund. They were generally disapproving of me and thought that their son could do no wrong. So it's really sort of poetic when you think about it: he went to jail, I graduated from law school.

Warms my heart just a little bit.